We Few, We Happy Few
by Runawaymetaphor
Summary: It's never just about getting what you want, but how you get it and when. (An AU, with the crew getting home in time for the worst of the Dominion War.)
1. Thieves and Saints

**Author's Note:** This presumes _Voyager_ gets home as a result of Janeway's thorny alliance with the Borg in "Scorpion," thus returning them to the Alpha Quadrant during a period in which the Federation is losing the war with the Dominion, and most of the Maquis have recently been exterminated by the new, Dominion-aligned Cardassian government.

_For Kelly, who has reminded me - more than once and always at the most apt times - that the distinction between Best Idea Ever and Tragic Mistake is often razor thin, resting on an infinite set of events of which most are wholly out of our control. _

* * *

><p><strong>We Few, We Happy Few<strong>

_I. Thieves and saints _

Tom tries not to watch the news feeds, but like anyone else on Earth, he isn't immune to their dark appeal. Images of the war are as captivating as they are bleak, and though he quits San Francisco for Marseilles in order to escape the crushing press of Starfleet and the constant beat of war drums, more evenings than not he finds himself in crappy bars, slowly nursing an Irish whiskey as he watches the newest depressing headlines.

He's been given a full commission, a fact that he cynically judges a testament to how desperate Starfleet must be for able, uniformed bodies. Granted, not so desperate as to offer the same to_ Voyager_'s Maquis, who received only clemency and a politically expedient acknowledgement of their 'efforts' in the Delta Quadrant. It's also already been made abundantly clear that USS _Voyager_ will not be going back out, ever. It's a decision that could be read as the simple mothballing of a ship that racked up constant wear and tear while other newer, Dominion-era ships were making its technology obsolete. Dismissed as simple, so long as one fails to understand the very real political symbolism attached ships and their designations.

Is it arrogant for him to consider passing up the commission, the free ticket that people like B'Elanna and Chakotay have been denied? He isn't sure what else he would do, nor is he immune to the call of duty during wartime, but he and Starfleet principles have always had a love-hate relationship even before he royally fucked up his career. Serving on _Voyager_, being Janeway's pilot was one thing. But another ship, another captain and an arbitrary set of rules. . . Tom doesn't think he has it in him, Dominion threat or no.

He's been granted six weeks of acclimation leave like the rest of_ Voyager_'s Starfleet personnel, but he's down to his last two weeks now and he's yet to request an assignment. He wonders if his father will even be angry - if he'll receive a rousing lecture about duty and necessity. Perhaps the Admiral has grown so accustomed to being disappointed in Tom's choices that a resignation won't even a warrant comment at the next family dinner (if there even_ is_ a family dinner, his two older sisters both apparently choosing to keep a large chunk of space between themselves and their father's orbit).

He tries not to think about his future, reminding himself, yet again, that he still has time to decide. Pushes back from the bar and the images of the day's latest casualties; leaves payment for his two drinks before heading out, into the narrow alley and the damp night air.

He shuffles into the small apartment he's taken, heading to bed without checking the comm panel for any messages. He checked it religiously, his first few weeks here, but after dozens of unreturned comms to Kessik IV, he no longer goes to sleep with thoughts of B'Elanna coiled expectantly in his chest. He lays down with his shoes still on and falls asleep above the covers, his mind apparently shutting off all thoughts (hopes, fears, expectations) the second his head hits the pillow.

He isn't hiding from his life. He isn't. It's just that he doesn't know what his life is now or what he's supposed to do to fill it.

. . . . .

Another week of leave ticks slowly on, and it occurs to Tom that his window to request a halfway interesting assignment has long closed. Starfleet will of course still send him orders, but his procrastination has squandered any opportunity he had of being something beyond a glorified freight pilot (assuming such a possibility even existed, given his record).

The realization makes it even more tempting to toss in his pips, and laying awake in bed early one overcast morning, he tries to figure out how he'll word the comm to his father. No way in hell he'll tell the old man in person.

The cowardice of this last thought is enough to make him flinch with a belated sense of shame and self-loathing. Starfleet officer or not, he's not that man anymore, not that foolish idiot who runs away from problems and leaves others alone to unknot all the consequences. He'll tell his father in person, he resolves, and he'll tell Harry, too. _Gods. Harry. _He can only imagine how it will feel to look into his best friend's eyes and inform him he's walking away from everything the man believes in.

He gets out of bed with a sense of purpose he hasn't felt these several weeks planetside, dressing quickly if without a sonic shower (it's pissing rain now, so there really isn't a point). He has a comm to return to one of his sisters and then some errands to run, but after that he'll come back and start making arrangements for what comes next.

He takes his time, deliberately picking his way along the street even though he didn't take an umbrella. He stops, for the first time, at the small vendor he's passed every day since he took his apartment down the block; buys an espresso and a promising hunk of flaky bread that the man there wraps for him with care. It occurs to him that if he wants, this could be what his life is like from now on: a semi-crowded street, a ritual coffee to his start his day; an existence that's paced by sunrises and weather and all things foreign to a starship's corridors.

He goes about his business and then heads back to his apartment, his clothes now completely soaked by rain. His shoes squish and his hair's matted to his forehead, but he feels oddly good. He feels something like himself for the first time since his feet hit Earth's soil.

He jogs up the staircase to his tiny flat, waving to the owner of the building just as the old man turns his leathered face to call to him.

"_Une jolie crevette est venue vous voir. Je l'ai ouvert votre porte, pour qu'elle puisse éviter la pluie, d'accord_?"

Tom used to be nearly fluent in French, but that ability is now pretty rusty, especially when it comes to picking up on idioms in the thick Marseilles drawl. He catches something about his door being opened, and waiting in the rain, but that's about it, so he assumes it was some kind of maintenance issue. Perhaps he should have kept his translator with him, given how many people here insist on speaking only French?

"_D'accord_," he nods with a friendly smile, "_merci_."

His door is still unlocked, which doesn't really spook him. It's Earth, after all, and even then it's not like he has much to steal. He's barely managed to toe off one waterlogged boot when he realizes there's someone else in the apartment's small sitting room.

"Is everyone in this city so trusting as to let a stranger into an apartment that isn't hers?" Janeway asks him, perched on his couch as though she's been waiting for sometime just to pose this very question.

He hasn't spoken to her since he found out Starfleet was giving him his commission. She was standing in his father's office and really only talked to the Admiral - about the Borg, and the Dominion, and how satisfied she supposedly was to have gotten _Voyager_ home. 'Satisfied', despite that most of the brass thought her a traitor for her alliance with the Borg, and Starfleet had essentially torn the pips from the collars of half her crew , and she may have _quite possibly_ returned to the Alpha Quadrant just in time to witness the destruction of the Federation firsthand. _Sure. Whatever you say, Captain. _

But whatever his mental commentary, watching Janeway have to bullshit her way through the Admiral's polite questions, he'd stood to the side, without comment or expression, and smiled when she gave him a perfunctory pat on the back before she left. And that was that.

"I think it's more that the men here are easily swayed by attractive women," he retorts now, taking off his second boot. He might be shocked to see her here, and without warning, but he's recovered enough of his equilibrium today that he's able to meet her ambush with a bit of cheek.

She chuckles at this, which is better than he expects, because even if she's currently dressed in civilian clothes and technically trespassing in his apartment, her ideas about appropriateness are always a little one-sided.

"Hello," she says, and puts down the coffee cup she's holding.

"Hello," he returns, giving her a bemused look. He's certain she's here to talk to him about his place in Starfleet, the shining career she's sure he'll have. Somehow, the dread he feels at this doesn't eclipse the profound comfort he gets from seeing her right in front him. "If that's coffee from the replicator, you're bolder than I thought. What it produces might be better than the crap Neelix made for you, but just barely."

"It's surprisingly awful," she concedes, looking into her cup with dismay, and he hands her what's left of his espresso. It might be cold, but it's genuine, non-replicated coffee and she accepts it without comment.

"Did you help yourself to any food after you broke in?" he inquires, walking to the replicator. "The device might fail miserably when it comes to liquids, but it does okay with solids. I picked up some fresh bread while I was out. I believe I can make us some pretty impressive sandwiches."

"Aren't you going to ask me why I'm here?"

"Do I need to?" he shrugs. He might not be looking forward to the conversation, but he's not going to beat around the bush. If he's prepared to go toe-to-toe with his father, he can probably do so with Kathryn Janeway. 'Probably' being the operative word. "I haven't requested an assignment yet, and I'm sure word of this has reached you."

"Do you plan on taking a new new post within Starfleet?"

"No. I don't. I'm sorry if that disappoints you."

"Well. You're a fine officer and a damn good pilot, so yes, I do find that unfortunate. . . But that's not the reason I'm here."

"No?"

"No."

"Good," he nods decisively. "So what should I make us for lunch?"

. . . . .

"I do believe this is the best sandwich I have ever had," Janeway admits reluctantly. She'd watched him in amused silence as he approached the making of their lunch with great gravity, methodically and deliberately stacking each piece of cheese, meat, and vegetable on carefully sliced bread.

"Sandwich making is an art form," he insists. "I tried to teach Neelix, back when I held out hope for his cooking."

"I can only assume how well that must have gone."

"He had a great intuition for bread to topping ratio. Unfortunately my tutelage was no match for his _insistence_ on the virtues of his leola root aioli."

"You're making that up," she accuses, dripping mustard onto her lap when she tries to wag a finger at him.

"You'll never know," Tom winks, and hands her his napkin.

They finish their lunch in companionable silence and Tom's mind begins to wander. Their banter has now made him think of Kes and Neelix, wonder how the two of them are getting on. Tom has spoken with the jovial Talaxian once, and it seems Starfleet is keeping him busy with their endless desire for tactical information on the Delta Quadrant. But Kes is a source of deep concern, HQ being a bit _too_ interested in her newly emerged psychokinetic powers. Tom's own father has been awfully tight lipped, even when asked directly.

He thinks about things like Section 31 and a shiver goes down his back. He feels the steady prick of anger.

"Something wrong?" Janeway asks, and he realizes he's stopped eating and has been staring at his plate.

"Just worrying a bit."

"About the future?"

"Worse," he corrects. "About the present."

She flashes him a sympathetic look before a shadow of something else passes over her face. He's curious, but he also knows better than to ask. She's being awfully casual with him now, laughing at his jokes and encouraging his gall, but one surprise visit and a chummy lunch doesn't change the fact that Kathryn Janeway doesn't part with confidences easily. Tom is smart enough to know this, leaving her to turn over her own thoughts in peace.

"Is Sandrine's still around?"

Her question catches him off guard. They'd both fallen back into silence and Tom eventually began to clear the small table of dirty dishes. He puts their water glasses in the recycler and scratches the hair behind his ear.

"Honestly, I don't know."

"You've been living in _Marseilles _and you haven't been to Sandrines?" she demands, a little scandalized.

"I came here for quiet," he explains, "not to relive my past. Going back to Sandrines, revisiting old haunts. . . I guess I thought it would feel a little morbid?"

"Understandable," she nods. But Tom can see her face fall, just a little.

"Did you want to go?"

"No," she says, too quickly, and Tom crosses his arms. "No. Not if you think it would bring back bad memories."

"It would if I was going alone. It might be different with a friend."

"A friend, huh?" she arches an eyebrow and leans against his couch.

"Look, you let yourself into my apartment without permission. The way I see it, that either makes you a friend or a burglar. And as you've yet to steal anything here, I presume that you're here as a friend... Unless you're simply a burglar who's yet to master even _the_ _fundamentals _of burgling."

She shakes her head at him, curling a hand over upturned lips. "How have you not changed at all?" She she sounds a bit mystified when she asks.

"Changed? It's only been five weeks!"

He feels guilty for being cavalier even as he puts on the act. Five weeks might be one thing, but five weeks and an entire quadrant is another. His two dozen unreturned comms to B'Elanna prove that, as has more than one awkward meal with erstwhile crewmates.

"A lot can change in five weeks," she sighs, and with an open sadness that surprises him. "I guess I wasn't sure if you'd still be Tom."

"I am," he assures. "Would you rather I were someone else?"

"No," she smiles, still sounding unmistakably sad. "I can honestly say that you are exactly the person I was hoping to find today."

He isn't sure what to do with such a delicate admission, so he reaches for his wet boots and throws a toothy grin over his shoulder.

"That's awfully kind of you, _ma'am_. I hope you still feel that way when I'm beating you at pool."

"Well, _friend_, you're welcome to try your luck. But I suspect at this point you should start calling me Kathryn. It's not like you're a Starfleet officer anymore."

"I reserve the right to call you 'ma'am'. If only for my own childish pleasure."

"Hmm. Is it too late to revisit the option of my being a horribly inept burglar?"

As he shrugs into his coat, Tom worries to himself that there's nothing of his that Janeway could ever steal. Anything she could want from him, he would most likely give her. Or die trying.

. . . . .

"Tom, this is far more. . . _sophisticated_ than I expected."

"The lighting is certainly brighter than I remember. They've done a fair bit of remodeling, too."

Sandrine's is still open, even if Sandrine is nowhere to be seen, and it had taken Tom a bit of time to find the bar's exact location. He hadn't bothered to check the computer before leaving, and they'd wasted twenty minutes walking up and down the wrong street. He's grateful Janeway didn't take the opportunity to needle him, even if he is _fairly certain_ it's because she doesn't want to be reminded of that time they were half an hour late for beam-out on a food gathering mission and Tuvok blew a Vulcan fuse, all because their tricorders wouldn't work and a certain Captain was _positive _a particular grove of trees was directly east of where they beamed in.

"Has it really changed that much since the last time you were here? Or was the seediness of the holoprogram all part of the Paris touch?"

"Ouch. I think."

She nods to a table in the far corner of the bar and he trails behind her, his arm brushing the back of hers when they stand to the side to let others pass.

"I think we have bigger problems than lighting changes."

"The pool table," she sighs. "I don't see it."

"It used to be over there," he gestures, pointing to where an ornate fireplace now stands.

"I know," she says. "Well. I assumed anyway, from your program."

"There's a back room. Maybe they moved it in there? It used to be mostly storage, but they could have converted it."

"You think?"

"No," he shakes his head. "But I prefer to nurse my delusional hope."

She pats his shoulder affectionately and he waits, allowing her to slide into the booth first.

"Well if you want some consolation, it looks like they've adopted a rather impressive wine list."

"Isn't it a little early in the day for us to be drinking?"

"You have a bridge shift you need to stay sober for?" she challenges. A fair point.

"I haven't had wine since we got home," he confesses. Watches with approval as Janeway's eyes immediately track to the side of the menu where the reds are. "Which now strikes me as a bit of a sin, being in France."

"You haven't been to Sandrine's. You haven't partaken of locally produced spirits. What _have _you been doing since you got here?"

Her tone is light, and he knows that she's only teasing him. But they're in a building he used to spend a lot of time in, drinking himself half blind. He feels suddenly reflective and ignores the urge to hide his feelings with a smartass quip.

"I guess I've been trying to remember how to live a normal life," he admits. "First I was in Starfleet. And later the Maquis - and _jail_. But the time in the middle, the only time in my life I was a free agent, my life was a complete mess. I didn't know how to live with myself without a drink in my hand, to say of nothing making myself happy."

He looks up from the menu he's been perusing to see Janeway staring at him intently. She doesn't say anything, and Tom feels immense relief when a server chooses that exact moment to appear at their table.

"Do you like merlot?" he asks across to Janeway.

"Not really," she makes a face. "Sorry."

"Don't be. That makes two of us." He points to a particular vintage for the server. "May we have a bottle of this pinot noir please?"

The server disappears, and Tom counts the seconds of silence, estimating how badly he's fucked up the light mood of their outing. "I'm sorry," he says, feeling like an idiot. "You were making a joke and I turned it into - I don't know. Gloom and doom."

"You didn't," she waves him off. "I was just surprised by your level of honesty."

He laughs, deflecting a little. "I'll try to rein in my honesty for rest of the afternoon, okay?"

"Tom. Hey." She leans across the table, grasping for his arm. Invades his personal space in the manner she always does when she wants to drive home a point. "I don't want you to bullshit me, okay? What you said just touched a little close to home."

"Reminded of you of all your drunken benders?" he asks darkly. "Or was it your time in jail?"

She's being sincere and doesn't deserve his dismissal, but one awkward moment is enough to make him gun shy for the rest of the conversation.

The server reappears with their wine, clearing her throat to signal her presence, and Janeway looks down at her hand, placed on Tom's forearm, and pulls it away.

"We can handle it," Tom smiles, when the server moves to open their bottle. It's a menial task Tom enjoys doing himself, even if the request makes the server eye him warily before departing. "It's a proper corkscrew," he shows Janeway, and twists it into the yielding cork. "None of that variable pressure carbon bullshit that changes the taste of the wine."

Janeway indulges him, watching him open the bottle and then slowly fill her glass.

"It this another artform? Like sandwich making?"

"Yes," he deadpans, and the previous tension evaporates. He pours himself a glass, takes his first wonderful sip.

French pinots can be difficult to appreciate. They're complex, earthy, and rarely finish in predictable ways, which is why is so many people find them challenging, even unyielding to the palate. They become the kind of bottle people acquire for bragging rights, keeping them on public display until they peak and then, sadly, rapidly decay.

Tom might be biased, pinot noir being the first wine he ever tried and liked, but he thinks it tragic that anyone would leave a thing of beauty - wrought from soil and years of constant labor - to die, sitting on a shelf.

"Did you know I was engaged when _Voyager _left to find Tuvok and the Maquis ship?"

Tom's eyebrows shoot up at this sudden turn of conversation. He knew a fair bit about Janeway, even back then. And what he didn't know from his father, he most certainly tried to find out while on DS9, waiting to board her ship. But a fiancé? No. This he didn't know.

"I didn't," he shakes his head.

"Mark Johnson," she supplies. "Childhood friend. Brilliant philosopher. All around nice guy."

Tom already knows from her tone, from her being in Marseilles, this story doesn't end with her and the nice guy riding into the sunset, and so only speaks because it's clear she's waiting for him to do so.

"Where is Mark now?" he asks, and tops off her glass.

"Married. To one of his colleagues. The wedding was about four days before the Borg were kind enough to send us on our merry way through their transwarp conduit."

_Ouch._

Tom holds eye contact without blinking but doesn't think to make physical contact across the table, as she's leaning all the way back in her seat, her hands pulled into her lap. She's sharing this confidence, this very personal admission, and yet there's only so much of herself she'll allow to be compromised. It's something Tom understands about Janeway on a fundamental level. Has from that first day, in Auckland.

"How long did he wait for you?"

"A long time," she breathes, after a long pause. "Longer than was probably healthy. . . Certainly longer than I expected him to wait, especially after _Voyager_'s first year out there."

He doesn't say anything to this. Merely sips his wine and lets the idea of another man's devotion - how irrational Mark Johnson's wait must have seemed to others, the pain which likely accompanied him finally letting Janeway go - bloom silently between them. And when Tom's thoughts shift to B'Elanna, to his own apparently futile longing, the taste of the wine in his mouth changes. He puts down his glass, pushing it away.

He clears his throat, about to change the subject, when Janeway's eyes shift to someone approaching their table; a brunette girl as pretty as she is young and who looks mostly at Janeway, her eyes alight with curiosity and something else.

"I don't mean to interrupt," the young woman begins breathlessly, "I was just sitting across the bar with a friend when I saw you and, well, aren't you the captain of that ship that was lost for years?"

The story of _Voyager_'s return to the Alpha Quadrant didn't last long in the newsfeeds, what with the constant cycle of the war's ever-changing images and Starfleet's desire to minimize any stories of Janeway's cooperation with 'the Borg menace.' It's something Tom judges one of the few benefits of coming back exactly when they did: the homecoming of a crew long declared dead would undoubtedly run _ad nauseam_ in a slower news cycle, thus earning them all even more (unwanted) notoriety.

Tom glances at Janeway, watching as she shifts ever so slightly in her seat while the girl stands, now speechless with anticipation, beside their table.

"I think you must have my friend confused for someone else," Tom remarks casually, and deliberately giving every appearance that he thinks the girl a little off. And though Janeway, it seems, can't bring herself to deny who she is, she does summon a rather bland expression, glancing between the girl and Tom as he proceeds to lie his ass off for both of them. "I live here in town, and she's just here to visit me from California."

"I could have _sworn_ I saw your face on the news last month," the girl maintains, now looking openly suspicious.

"You might have," Tom shrugs. "But not for the reason you apparently think. Really. We're just an ex-con and a failed thief out for a night on the town." The girl's eyes go wide, clearly horrified, which means she probably misses Janeway connect her foot with Tom's under the table. "If you can guess which of us is which," he finishes, undaunted by Janeway's silent warning, "I'll buy your next round at the bar."

The girl quits their table with the same haste as she approached it. Janeway's eyes trail her retreating form, and when it disappears, shift back to Tom, staring grey daggers.

"Glare at me if you want," he defends, "you can't argue with results."

She holds her consternation for a beat, maybe two, and then she folds, her expression splitting into a smile, and then slow, reluctant laughter. "I can't believe you did that," she sighs. "That was so. . . _wicked_."

"I didn't _exactly_ lie," he says, and then starts to laugh himself. He's made Janeway laugh before. Oh, yes, he has. But this is her _snickering_, and of the many things that Starfleet Captains Do Not Do In Public, snicker is somewhere toward the top of the list. He feels deliciously light-headed, not bothering to gauge how much of it is the bottle they've already finished off.

"Perhaps we should see about that pool table? Before you get us run out of town?"

"Maybe," he allows. Thinks better of joking that she shouldn't worry, as he knows this captain who has a habit of springing convicts.

The server reappears, as if Tom's merely wanting her presence summoned her, and he decides that if the service is this good now, he might be willing to part with his beloved pool table.

"A gentleman at the bar has sent this," the server brandishes a new, expensive looking bottle, "if it pleases you."

Janeway flinches, obviously afraid that they're about to hounded by someone else who's recognized one of them from the news vids, and Tom angles his face around the booth to size up the men at the bar. "Sent it for the table?" he asks with a smirk, locating a portly, middle-aged fellow watching Janeway keenly, "or sent it for _the lady_?"

The server averts her eyes, her only response, and Tom whips his head back to Janeway.

"What a cocky bastard. Sending a bottle of wine to a woman already seated with a male companion!"

"Come again?"

"You're new admirer isn't interested in _your_ _explorations,_" Tom drawls, unconvinced that a woman so well-versed the finer points of careful flirting who could really be this dense. "Only his own desire for first contact. "

"_Tom_."

The server, likely relieved the male occupant of the table has a sense of humor rather than a jealous temper, favors Tom with an amused glance he decides on which to capitalize.

"I'm afraid I'm going to need two favors from you. The first is to tell me what happened to the pool table that used to be over there," he pauses, flashing a dazzling smile, "and the second would be to tell the kind gentleman at the bar that lady does not drink _merlot._"

"Mister Paris, is there a reason you're hellbent on making a scene?" Janeway demands, a little crossly, the moment the server is out of earshot. She's cheating a bit, calling him 'Mister Paris', but the wine flush in her cheeks cancels out her intimidating tone.

"Hardly a scene. If the guy really had guts, he would have brought the bottle over himself."

"And you know that _how,_ exactly?"

"Because," Tom rolls his eyes, "that's what _I _would have done."

. . . . .

As it turns out, the pool table is still around, if only in storage waiting for someone to recycle it.

"I can let you in there," the server offers, "just take care around all the junk."

Tom settles their tab, adding another bottle for good measure, and Janeway looks on in wry amusement as the server discretely enters her code into the warehouse door, glancing around to see if someone (probably the bartender) can see them.

"Where does one learn the ability to talk your way into any place?" Janeway teases him, once they're left alone.

_Pot meet kettle_, Tom thinks, but says instead, "I've found the handier ability is talking oneself _out_ of places. A skill I sadly never acquired."

Janeway murmurs her agreement as she circles the discarded pool table, her fingers gingerly tracing several deep scratches in the felt.

"Sad to see," he sighs, picking up a ball and curling his fingers against the cool, smooth resin.

"Nothing lasts forever."

Tom feels the lighthearted feeling of their outing slipping away, and promptly regrets coming in here to chase a memory. He decides that they should make the best of it, now that they're already here. "Well, we have a bottle of wine, two glasses, and a salvageable pool table. I think we should play a game. Just to say we did."

"We're missing the two solids," she points out, surveying the balls she's racked out of habit. "And the only cue stick is one that's seen better days."

"We don't have to keep score. Besides, I think we've both proven we can excel in non-optimal situations."

"Fair enough." She adds, pointedly looking around the haphazardly stacked boxes and random piles of clutter, "but the first sign of a single rat and we're out of here."

"Only rat in here is the one you already shared a bridge with," he winks. It's a bold lie, even for him, as this close to the water there are most certainly rats in a warehouse like this. She doesn't call him on it, just slides the rack to where it should be, grouping the misshapen mass of balls the best she can.

He lets her break, an offer she acts comically suspicious of. The truth is, he just likes to watch her play. Enjoys the way she approaches it with such gravity, like striking the cue ball in just the right way is the most important task she's ever set out to perform.

"Stripes," she declares confidently, walking arounding the table to find her next shot, "I guess with two solids missing, you might actually have a chance of winning."

"You think?"

Another striped ball lands neatly in a pocket after a complicated bank shot there was no need for her to attempt.

"No," she replies cheekily. "Not really."

He laughs so hard at this that he distracts her; she chuckles just enough along with him that she flubs her next shot.

"I missed this."

"Me too," he agrees, trying to remember the last time they played. They'd made a regular habit of it, but there at the end, with crisis falling on top of crisis, it felt like their last game was months before they left the Delta Quadrant.

"I can't even. . . When did we last play?"

"I was just thinking about that. I can't remember. I think right before I lost a shuttle in that interfold layer?"

"Of course you remember _that_ game," she accuses. It's the only game he ever won, even if barely and only because she was distracted by an alarming comm from Tuvok. "But surely we played after that?"

"I remember now! We did. A day after that mess with the Nyrians trying to take over the ship."

"That's _right_," she snaps her fingers. "You kept raising the temperature on the holodeck while we played. I almost sent you back to the Doctor. Was afraid he missed some kind of illness after your prolonged exposure to the cold."

"Trust my luck to be trapped in the only icy habitat," he mutters.

"True. But I don't think you ever complained about the company."

Tom doesn't know what to say here at the mention of B'Elanna. He doesn't have it in him to lie, but everything that's honest hurts too much, is open and raw in a way that feels like it won't ever heal. It's a pain that's becoming familiar, if one that strikes him, for the first time, as possibly inappropriate. Because as much as he cares for B'Elanna, it's not as if she ever gave him any direct indication that she shared his feelings, and so while it's one thing to mourn the loss of a relationship, and yet another to grieve for a set of possibilities, Tom isn't sure what he had with B'Elanna was even something properly called 'possible.'

Maybe it's this uncertainty that hurts him the most?

He doesn't know if his silence is more meaningful than he intends it to be or Janeway's simply focusing on the table now that it's her turn again. Either way, she doesn't follow up on her last comment, grey eyes appearing to calculate trajectories as she surveys the dwindling balls.

"You're going to win," he announces, more to himself than to her.

"I was always going to win." It's a simple statement of fact.

"True. But with a two ball advantage, my loss is far more humiliating."

"I thought we weren't keeping score?"

"A lie you never believed for a second."

Her eyes sparkle with agreement and she pushes her hair off her shoulder. It's not as long as it was the last time he saw it down, back on the ship, and he idly wonders if she cut it before or after they got home.

"I could keep going," she says, sinking another ball, "but I fear it might be bad form to destroy every shred of dignity you have left, my being your guest and all."

This is a new level of trash talk, even for her. Not that Tom minds.

"Very bad form," he concludes. "You should leave me with the delusional idea that I could have come from behind."

"Thanks," she decides, raising her hands to her hips.

"For losing to you?"

"No," she laughs. "For making me play. For bringing me here even though it might have brought back bad memories. . . For treating me like a person and never once calling me 'Captain', despite that I essentially lied my way past your landlord and broke into your apartment."

"You lied to my landlord?" It wasn't the first thing to catch his attention, but it's the only thing he has any intelligent response to, no less so because she's being so uncharacteristically open with him right now, and has been the whole day, come to think of it.

"I told him I'm old friend and hadn't seen you in ages."

"You are an old friend. Sort of. And depending on one's perspective, it does feel like ages."

"Right," she smiles, and averts her gaze to the bottle they've barely touched.

"I didn't toss out the cork. We can take the wine with us."

"Is that allowed?" She takes in his expression and shakes her head. "Silly question. I forgot that you don't care."

"I am not compelled to break _every _rule," he pouts, forcing the stained end of the cork back into the bottle.

"Even if you were, I'm not sure that I have room to lecture."

It's an open invitation to ask about her own career, whether they're giving her another ship. He thinks, given her current mood and blood alcohol content, he has a good chance of getting a completely candid answer. He doesn't seize the opportunity, unwilling to break (again) the relative ease they've found.

"Ready to get out of here?" he asks, and she nods, putting down the cue stick and handing him the wine.

Tom turns toward the door, then thinks better of it. Places one palm flat on the peeling felt of the pool table and closes his eyes.

"Just wanted to say goodbye," he explains, when he joins her at the door, but it's clear she already understands. She has one hand shoved deep in her coat pocket and loops the other loosely through his arm.

"So what else is there for a failed thief to do in a town like this?"

. . . . .

It starts to rain on them about a half an hour after they leave Sandrines. They hadn't been walking with strict intention, merely milling about the docks in remarkably companionable silence until the skies opened up, catching them both by surprise.

"Shit," Tom sputters, when what starts as a slight drizzle turns into a deluge. Janeway nudges him toward a storefront with a substantial awning and they move to stand under it, each pulling their jackets tighter around themselves.

"I didn't realize it rained this much here in winter," she says idly, droplets glistening from her eyelashes as she blinks.

"It doesn't usually," he shakes his head. "This February's been colder and wetter than anything on record."

"It's odd."

"Nah. The city will just have to activate the weather controls."

"I mean weather in general," she clarifies. "Walking in the snow around my mother's house in Indiana felt nostalgic, but I completely forgot what it was like to get caught in a downpour."

"I thought about that this morning. It's a little weird to think my days will now be governed by temperature changes rather than spatial anomalies."

Her eyebrows shoot up at this, obviously shocked that he intends to stay planetside. But she doesn't ask, doesn't seize the opportunity to draw him into a conversation about the opportunities he still has within Starfleet.

It's a relief, sort of, but it doesn't change the fact that Tom still has a lot of decisions to make.

"There aren't any private flying jobs that would be of interest," he finds himself explaining. "I'm not even sure I would have been interested in any pilot assignment Starfleet would have given me." He sighs, if with a halfhearted smile, "kind of boring to do standard patrols after traversing an unknown Quadrant."

Her face becomes unreadable at this last part, her eyes shifting to the artwork in the gallery in front of which they've taken refuge. He isn't sure if she doesn't have anything to say or she's treading lightly in an effort to respect his decision.

"So what will you do now?"

"I honestly don't know," he admits, and sounding every bit as afraid and as hopeful as he feels. "But I'll figure it out."

"You will," she nods decisively. "You're smart. Tenacious. Creative."

"And charming. I'm _very_ charming."

"So you've always claimed," she runs her hands through her damp hair, "though I'm not convinced enough to put it in any letter of professional support."

The rain breaks as she begins to tease him, and they seize upon the opportunity to navigate their way back to his neighborhood.

"What about you?" he finally asks her. "Where is Starfleet sending you?"

"Well, there's a war on."

"So I've heard. One we're losing, rumor has it."

Her features become hard at this. Tom watches a small convoy of raindrops move down her shoulder as she tucks her hands under her arms for warmth.

"_Technically_ I have a week of leave left, just like everyone else. In actuality, I have to report to HQ in three days for tactical briefings."

"And then?"

"Another ship," she shrugs. "Another command."

"Another crew to fearlessly shepherd."

"Something like that," she says softly. "But you know the drill as well as I do, given your family."

"Indeed. My father will likely be on active duty until he dies."

"He's very proud of you." She says this holding eye contact, her voice confident even though (or perhaps precisely _because_) she knows she's now navigating in turbulent space. "I understand the two of you have never had an easy relationship, and I am far from an expert on parental relations, but please believe me when I say that he admires all that you achieved on _Voyager_."

"I do," he acknowledges simply. "I'm just not sure he'll feel that same way after I resign."

He voices the thought without bitterness, which is kind of a huge step. Because, yes, he understands that the strained silence that now stretches between himself and his father is now more awkwardness than residual anger. But what will that uncertain, cautious silence turn into when his name is no longer preceded by a rank?

"I am officially cold and waterlogged," she announces, perhaps by way of acknowledging that she has nothing helpful to say regarding his father.

"That makes two of us. So what now?"

"I guess I could stop monopolizing your time," she ventures. "If there's something I've been keeping you from."

He does have things he needs to get done, important comms to thoughtfully compose. But none of it is as enjoyable as strolling aimlessly with the woman next to him, to say nothing of doing so while still a wee bit tipsy.

"I am perfectly happy with your monopoly. But if there's someplace you need to be. . ."

"No," she smiles, but it's that same sad smile from earlier, in his apartment. "There's no place I need to be."

"So spend the rest of the day here. While you're still a free agent."

"The rest of the day? With you?"

"Do you have a better offer?"

"Maybe," she squints. "But that fellow _did _send me the wrong wine entirely."

He chuckles, relieved at her joke. His stomach lurched when he considered his own shortsighted question, how distinctly unwanted the indirect mention of her former fiancé would be, even if accidental.

And what of Chakotay? He thinks to ask after the man, perhaps use the information as an insight into the status of another former Maquis crewmate. He doesn't, if only because following his last question with one about Chakotay will be too presumptuous, even for him.

"Why don't we regroup at my place? At the very least it's warm and dry there." He means it to be a decision, but it comes out more like a question; he's too accustomed to following her lead to comfortably give directives, however casual.

"Fair enough. So long as you're willing to point me the in the direction of the vendor from whom you acquired that wonderful espresso you handed me this morning."

. . . . .

The day isn't particular eventful, though the very idea of spending a day palling around with her _feels_ eventful for Tom. Back at his apartment, having dried their coats and boots, he suggests they go to a nearby museum, thinking it the kind of thing Janeway would enjoy doing. But when they get there, she appears as apathetic about the rooms of millennia-old art as Tom himself feels. He considers the possibility, _really_ considers for the first time, that his image of her is a composite of assumptions, some of which might be quite misplaced.

"We can leave," he offers, "if you'd like some place that's less crowded."

It's afternoon now and the museum has quickly swelled with tourists. Tom's noticed that she sizes up every room the moment they enter it, a PADD containing the museum's various brochures used to obscure her face if she thinks that someone is staring.

"If you're bored," she agrees, without admitting any discomfort.

"A little. Guess I never had the patience to appreciate fine antiquities."

"Except for automobiles."

"Right. Except for automobiles." This earns him a smile, the first one she's shown since entering the building filled with art, hushed voices, and the sound of dozens of footsteps on centuries old marble. "Come on. I know a place that might be more our speed."

"Is there a pool table?"

"Um, not exactly."

He tell her it's too far to walk, especially in the damp air, but she asks him no questions as they board the transport, and so Tom drifts off in thought. Eventually, he tries to remember the last day he spent like this, just idly popping here and there with someone else, no ship to get back to and no chrono to mind. It feels a little indulgent, which strikes him as a silly. He's been living without the pattern of duty rotations and carefully scheduled days more than a month, there's no reason this should feel as odd to him as it apparently does.

He realizes he's smiling a little at the absurdity, and so Janeway must wonder what's so funny. She doesn't break their comfortable silence, merely presses her shoulder a little more solidly into his and taps her fingers in a gentle rhythm on the armrest that they share.

"This is us," he announces, and they both stand to exit the transport. It's a minute of walking down a large avenue, and then Tom's nodding with his chin. "Here we are."

"A _church_?" she asks incredulously.

"A cathedral, technically."

"Tom… I'm not exactly-"

"A theist? Me either. But I didn't bring you here to take in a mass. Although, if I'm not mistaken, there should be one starting in about an hour." He's completely thrown her, this much he can see. And though he had no intention of making her this uncomfortable, he revels a little in his ability to surprise her. "Come with me?" he asks, holding out his arm. "Please?"

She gives her ascent solemnly, like she's performing some kind of official duty. Maybe, in her head, she is.

"When I was stationed here in the Academy, Sandrines is where I went to blow off steam. But this is where I came to think."

"An odd choice. Given your sensibilities."

"Maybe," he whispers, "maybe not. This building is one of the oldest in the city, parts of it date back to the fifteenth century. It's been destroyed during wars. Rebuilt a dozen times."

"You like the history."

"Partly." He adds, "it also happens to be a place the very architecture of which was built to demand reflection, draw the mind up to something aspirational."

"Even though that 'something aspirational' involves metaphysical principles you don't believe in?" she pushes, sounding every bit the scientist.

"I don't believe in all-seeing god, or the Bajoran prophets, or anything beyond this physical existence. But I _do _believe in things greater than me, bigger than me." He continues, a bit more pointedly, "and as someone who's chosen a life of Starfleet service, I dare say so do you."

She tilts her head to the side in acknowledgement. Picks her way slowly down the center aisle, her eyes trained on the elaborate patterns in each of the large, stained glass windows: a dozen images of saints looking solemn and sometimes pained.

"I imagine the sunshine coming through those windows is quite lovely."

"It is," he sighs, sitting down gingerly in a pew. "Especially right about now, with the afternoon light hitting at just the right angle."

It's the first time he feels genuinely agitated with the rain they've had all day, but he keeps this to himself, watching Janeway size up the building, the angle of the windows and series of arches above them - as if she's estimating how aesthetically pleasing the sunlight would be at this hour.

He lets her explore and she lets him sit, quietly contemplating. When she returns to where he is after several minutes, her footsteps are so soft he doesn't hear her until she's right beside him, gingerly seating herself on the same pew.

"I understand it," she says simply.

"I thought you might."

"You should bring Harry here. He would appreciate it."

Tom isn't sure how often he'll get to see his friend once Harry's next assignment starts, but he likes that Janeway speaks of their friendship with such certainty, as if the bond between himself and the younger man is such that she assumes it will remain unchanged. Tom certainly hopes it does.

"One day," he agrees. "When he has the time."

"How is he? Still happy to be back in range of his mother's cooking?"

"I think so," he chuckles. "I admit we haven't spent a lot of time together. Though we do comm."

Out of the corner of his eye, Tom sees her cock a concerned eyebrow at his admission. He sifts through his thoughts, debating how to explain.

"This first week back," he begins, "the Kims invited me to a family dinner. Huge spread. Lots of relatives."

"I come from a big extended family. I know those dinners well."

"Me too, so I thought. Except that Harry's family - they're just so genuinely happy to be together, to have Harry back. They could spend _days_ telling stories about all his Academy awards or the time he broke an ankle in the parrisses semi-finals."

"Please don't tell me they _bored_ you," she teases.

"No! Not at all! They're _great_ people. It's just, I mean, Harry came back and was immediately cocooned in this sense of homecoming and joy, and as much as he wanted to share that with me. . . I can't. Because . . . Well, I guess, because the only place I've ever felt that at home was on _Voyager._"

Janeway lets out a long, jagged at breath at this. Whether it's one of sympathy or something thornier, Tom isn't sure.

"There isn't anything wrong with wanting it back," she tells him, scooting a little closer. "So long as the wanting doesn't lead to dwelling."

It something she says with gravity, as if it's something she's been turning over for sometime on her own. And although he himself misses being out there, misses being stranded far away from everything in the Alpha Quadrant, realizing that Janeway, who left behind a fiancé and a life outside a prison cell, might also miss it makes him relieved and sick to his stomach all at once.

"I don't think I could ever have brought B'Elanna here," Tom says suddenly. He meant to think it more than say it, but doesn't react to hearing the words out loud. "I don't think she would understand it."

"I'm not sure you're giving her enough credit," he hears Janeway remark softly.

"Maybe I'm not."

"Have you spoken to her?"

"Tried for weeks to contact her before I gave up," he confesses, and feels a profound pressure build within his chest. "At first I thought she'd gone somewhere else after her mother's house on Kessik. But I've . . . I've left so many messages with so many people across a dozen planets. There's no way she doesn't know."

"Maybe they just need time," she sighs, and he immediately catches the 'they.' Understands, without a moment's reflection, that the plural form of the pronoun is rounded out by Chakotay.

He thinks back to how silent Chakotay was in the briefings during the cooperation with the Borg; the way the XO's back stayed ramrod straight during their first open comm from Starfleet upon getting home. As if he'd resigned himself to Janeway's deal with the devil, and how clearly he must have understood Starfleet's inability to accept the same when it came to the Maquis.

Tom wonders now if it's two men Janeway's missing, or whether it's actually just the one whose name she's yet to say out loud and only now allowed herself to reference.

"Time for what?" he demands, if more to the pale, forlorn faces painted above them than to her.

"Time away from us."

_Ah. That._

. . . . .


	2. Too close to the sun

_II. Too much in the heat; too close to the sun_

* * *

><p>"Stay here another day?" she repeats. "With you?"<p>

Tom threw the invitation out after they've done a bit more sightseeing, and only because he senses Kathryn has no profound desire to return to San Francisco, or Indiana, or wherever it is that she's been staying.

If he's honest with himself, and he's doing pretty well at being honest with himself today, the offer also spills out because he isn't ready for her to leave.

"Normal people have been known to do this kind of thing," he points out, "visit people they're fond of for more than one day." They're on a transport back to his neighborhood, so he busies himself with looking interested in the cityscape whizzing by their window, while Janeway looks at him steadily if without much of expression, slowly blinking as she thinks it over. Or else decides that he's crazy.

"And what do normal people do during such these grand, multi-day visits with friends?"

"Let's see," Tom says, and tries to look philosophical. "They talk. They consume meals, especially ones they cook themselves. They sit in amiable silence... Sometimes they even play card games."

"You make it all sound terribly exciting."

"We aren't going for _exciting_, we're going for normal."

She makes a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat, but Tom can see that she's trying to hide a smile. They fall into a comfortable silence until the transport is at their stop, and she charges off like she's late for something important. When he exists the transport after the dozen people who've somehow managed to file between them, she's standing on the street with her hands on her hips, looking as if he's been making her wait for hours.

"I hope you realize that you're going to have to be the one who makes dinner, Tom, because I can't cook to save my life."

"Pretty sure everyone on _Voyager_ knows that, ma'am. There are enough stories floating around."

"Stories."

"Survivors' tales, really. Though at least you made a few people a little more appreciative of Neelix."

This makes her mouth gape open a bit, which he counts as a victory. She huffs and puffs with exaggerated indignation as they walk along the crowded avenue.

"You're a jackass. You realize this, yes?"

"You're not the first woman to tell me," he allows. "Maybe the best one though. Since my mother died anyway."

This earns him a soft smile, Kathryn patting him on the arm as they reach the narrow street that will take them back to his apartment.

"It's a kind invitation, though I worry that my staying with you is an imposition."

_Staying with him? _

When Tom brought up her staying in Marseilles for another day, he meant in a hotel. Granted, his invitation was ambiguous in this regard, but Janeway is such a private person by nature, he simply assumed she'd want her space. It never occurred to him that she'd stay _with him_, in his tiny little apartment.

"Not at all," he breezes, and enters the code to his door. "I'll even volunteer to take the couch."

"And I'll let you, since you're ten years my junior."

"Sleeping in bars and prison cells adds a lot of light years," he mumbles, but she ignores him.

"So what are you making me for dinner?" she demands, after a few minutes. He's checked to his comm panel to see a message from Harry as well as one from Megan Delaney. He'll call them up later on, after Janeway goes to sleep.

"Leola root stew. I made sure to get Neelix's recipe before we left the ship."

"If you're so committed to annoying me that you're willing to make collateral damage of yourself, so be it."

"A fair point." He pokes around his kitchen to see what he has at his disposal. He enjoys cooking, but hasn't been doing a whole lot of it here, so there isn't much available. "Looks like a trip to the market is in order," he decides out loud.

"Can't you just replicate what you need?"

"I can, but it won't taste the same." She gives him a dubious look and he arches his eyebrows in challenge. This isn't a point he's willing to leave up for debate, and so he stresses every syllable when he repeats, "_replicated food_ _does not taste the same._"

"Right," she nods, clearly amused. "Of course."

He thinks to go to outdoor market alone, but then reconsiders when he remembers she's a much pickier eater than he is.

"I'm easier to please than you think," she assures him, after he frets a little out loud.

"Easy, huh?" he wiggles his eyebrows, and she clearly regrets the word choice.

"Not _that _easy," she modifies.

"Maybe I will just replicate a few things," he allows, going back to the original subject. "If only to avoid going back out into the rain."

"Or else just replicate the whole meal and forgo cooking altogether?"

"Forgo cooking?" he repeats, disdainfully. "_Crazy talk_."

He settles on the idea of a seafood chowder, replicating and then lining up a series of ingredients in pristine looking white bowls.

"Anything I can do?" she asks, no doubt hoping he'll say no. He doesn't actually need any help, but he considers putting her to work anyway, if only for the pure joy of watching Kathryn Janeway struggle with a menial task.

"Nope," he assures. "Except keeping me company while I get this broth started."

"Company. Hmm. Well what should we talk about?"

"Tell me about your family," he shrugs, throwing a heaping handful of salt into some water_. _"You already know a fair bit about mine, but I don't know very much about yours."

"I have a younger sister."

"Phoebe, right?"

She nods, then tells him about Phoebe's family, the two young nephews she's slowly getting to know. She regales him with tales about the surprising amount of destruction a two and four-year-old can cause. "I feel a bit guilty that Phoebe and her husband felt compelled to move back to Earth after _Voyager w_as declared lost," she admits later, "be closer to my mother, when they all thought I was dead."

"Is being closer burdensome?" Tom asks, before sampling a spoonful of broth. It doesn't taste the way it needs to, which isn't surprising since he hasn't cooked something like this in years. He furrows his brow, deciding what to do about it.

"Phoebe and my mother are very close. Closer, honestly, than I've ever been with mom... But Phoebe's always shunned everything she associated with the Starfleet life we grew up with - living on Earth included. She would have been thrilled to gallivant around the galaxy for the rest of her life, if only she hadn't woken up one day with the belief that she was her mother's only remaining daughter."

"Can I ask you a personal question?" He throws a cutting board full of fish and vegetables into the broth, listening for the objection that doesn't come. "Do you just feel guilty that your mother and sister mourned your death, or guilty that it was you who got to do the gallivanting?"

He looks on as a pot that's been simmering breaks into a roaring boil, adjusts the temperature downward as Janeway's poignant silence stretches on , punctuated eventually with a soft, "I'm not not sure."

He thinks, he _knows_, actually, that she _is _sure. Understands almost as soon as he voices the question that whatever guilt she has is kind of tertiary emotion: a quasi-remorse about the absence of guilt she felt, traipsing through the Delta Quadrant those four years, and now about the nagging longing that' replicating over and over, like a virus within her body, knowing those days are over.

"This just needs to simmer for a bit," he declares, placing a heavy lid down on the pot with a satisfying thud. "Maybe an hour?"

"So."

"So."

"What shall we do in the meantime?"

"I believe I mentioned the possibility of playing cards," he states, and sits on one of the couch's armrests. "I don't suppose you're as good at card games as you are pool?"

She shrugs cryptically, a slight smile playing at her lips, and Tom decides that it's time he start making some bad decisions tonight, if only to stay true to character.

"The first game isn't for money," he announces, replicating a deck of cards. "After that, we'll have to name the stakes."

. . . . .

As turns out, Janeway is actually bad cards. In fact, 'bad' is a generous term, the quality of her actual skillset being the stuff of Greek tragedy.

He beats her at four straight games of gin, though he had assumed, during the first two games, he was just being conned for larger stakes. "No more money bets," he says, after the third game. "It's one thing to play a game of strategy with a friend, but as a gentleman, I cannot engage in a duel with an apparently defenseless opponent."

"I'm still warming up!" she defends, her voice rising a little. He'd given her the benefit of the doubt at first, but once it became obvious that, one, she was not conning him, and, two, she wasn't just getting crappy cards, he couldn't help voicing his disbelief. How is it a possible that such smart, strategic person could be so completely hopeless at a basic card game?

"I think you're as warm as you're going to get," he mocks.

"One more game. Double or nothing."

"No, no way. If we keep playing double or nothing, you're going to have to sell the farm in Indiana just to cover your debt."

"_Deal. _That's an order_._"

"Sorry, ma'am. My lack of pips means I don't give two shits about your orders."

"You're a jerk," she declares, tossing a handful of cards in his general direction.

"And you're a bad loser, which I guess I _theoretically_ knew before this. But this kind of direct proof is rather spectacular."

Somewhere in the kitchen, a timer beeps. Happy for the excuse, Tom hops out of his seat and checks on the progress of their dinner.

"Not the best chowder I've ever made," he admits, "but not the worst either."

"A ringing endorsement."

"You can't cook - _or_ play cards. Don't be too quick to throw stones."

"You remember the days when you called me 'Captain' and were nothing but respectful of me on the bridge?"

"Umm, I _believe _I got away with as much as I could in terms of banter, if you recall."

"Oh, _I do_," she says, slouching in her chair. "Which is why the bridge was always a little less enjoyable for me when it was Baytart or someone else at the conn."

"Really?" he asks, suddenly serious, and Janeway's face falls like she let slip one truth too many.

"Yes," she replies slowly. "Though, for the first year, I tried to tell myself that I just preferred having you at the helm because it meant I had my best pilot if a situation turned sticky. . . Partiality isn't exactly the cornerstone of being a good CO."

"Right. Captains aren't supposed to like people. Just order them around."

"I'm being serious," she says, softly now.

"So am I," he shrugs, attempting to sound casual despite the irrational ire he feels. "Preferring to chat with me over boring ol' Pablo Baytart didn't make you a bad CO, didn't compromise any missions."

He doesn't come out and say it, but he knows his tone is unmistakable. _Damn myopic Starfleet policies. To hell with their idiotic rules. _

Janeway's still slouched down in her chair, but her whole posture has changed. He watches her watching him as he tries to look like he' a fussing over a pot that, he knows, simply needs to be left alone to cool.

"You _say _it didn't compromise a mission."

"If I'm wrong, then name one." It's a dare that's out of line. He knows it, and regrets it the second he says it, because it's an awful position to put a friend in, let alone a friend who's struggling with the concept that she can have his friendship. He puts up his hand to wave his own words off, to apologize without apologizing, but it's too late. She's already taking the bait.

"The warp ten flight. I had no business putting you in that shuttle, and I think we both know that."

Tom leans over the pot he's been needlessly fixating on. Allows the spicy steam to catch him full in the face. It burns, his cheeks feeling alight with heat and his eyes welling up with water.

He doesn't pull away.

"Well," he says finally. "Dinner's ready."

. . . . .

"Alright," Kathryn says, several minutes into a very quiet dinner. "It seems we've gotten our first dispute as equals out of the way. And we've survived, so let's dispense with the awkward silence, shall we?"

"It was an unfair thing to say to you," he apologizes. "I'm a jerk. And sometimes I say stupid things."

"Well, I can't cook, play a decent hand of cards, or lose gracefully. No one's perfect. And I forgive you, on one condition."

"Name it."

"You go and grab that bottle of wine you pinched from Sandrine's. . . I'm starting to get a headache, which may well be a hangover from earlier today."

"And your solution is _more _wine?" he teases, standing up. "I didn't know we had so much in common."

They finish dinner, and then finish the wine, and then, after a fair bit of debate, replicate another bottle. Their conversation devolves from old stories to various species of verbal one-upmanship that neither of them quite win.

At some point, they both realize they should go to sleep.

"What time is it?" she asks him, and he shakes his head in warning after he glances at the chrono.

"You don't want to know."

"Fair enough," she allows, and pushes herself up from her chair with the same effort he puts into getting out of his own.

"Do you want help cleaning the kitchen?"

"Nah. Most of it can just get recycled in the replicator. Speaking of which, there's a small replicator in the bedroom you should feel free to use for sleep clothes and any toiletries you need." He lets out a spectacular yawn before concluding, "the database isn't particularly imaginative, but it's always met my needs."

"Are you going to be okay on the couch?" She sounds sheepish, even as she begins to walk to his bedroom.

"No problem at all." With all that wine, he's pretty sure he could sleep on a concrete floor and not wake up tonight.

"Good night then."

"Good night."

He means to clean the kitchen, he really does. But he's so tired, and his body so warm and full, he stumbles instead to the couch and stretches out there, still dressed in all his clothes.

He wakes up sometime later, feeling hot and sweaty, and with his neck complaining from being at an odd angle. He sits up quickly, which proves unfortunate , as once upright, his neck becomes the least of his worries.

When he no longer feels like he's going to empty his stomach contents onto the floor, he strips off his socks (_really?_ _socks?_) and then his shirt, tossing them into a sweaty heap in the corner. He expects that it must be almost daybreak, but checks the chrono and sees that only two hours have passed since he and Janeway called it quits. So much for sleeping the deep, contented sleep of the drunk and exhausted.

He would normally take a shower, but as the bedroom connecting to it is occupied, he settles for washing up in the kitchen. Too bad that to do so he must first recycle the pile of dirty dishes he'd piled in the sink and then abandoned there. He curses under his breath when he almost breaks an empty bottle of wine. He must not have been _completely _drunk if he insisted on replicating a decent Malbec.

When he's finished cleaning up, he washes his face with cool water and hangs a cold, damp rag around his neck. He's sure that there have been times that he's felt worse for self-imposed reasons. He just thinks it unfair that in those instances he did exponentially more to earn what, upon reflection, seems a small margin more of pain.

_Aging is a grand thing._

Eventually, he stretches back out on the couch, though he knows the second he does so that doing so is useless. His mind, while occupied with nothing in particular, is still _occupied_, refusing to shut down. It's something he knows better than to fight, and gets up after a few minutes, remembering the comms from Megan and Harry he's yet to listen to while his guest was awake.

This first he queues is from Megan, her comms being the kind of superficial stuff he gets from many of his erstwhile crewmates: kind, jovial, but generic; undoubtedly the kind of message that could be sent of dozens of people, simply by replacing the greeting.

Harry's proves more enjoyable and, as expected, more personal. He listens as his friend explains, with some concern, his inability to get meaningful communication from_ Voyager_'s ex-Maquis crew. It's become a pet project of Harry's, keeping tabs on everyone, and it clearly worries him how many people have fallen into an apparent void.

"_No one's heard from Torres, Chakotay, or O'Donnell directly except Mike Ayala, and his own comms are amiable but deliberately vague and uninformative, which could be worrisome, or else just Mike being... well, himself."_

"Tom?"

The bleary sound of Kathryn's voice from the hallway catches him off guard. He pauses Harry's automatically, as if to put on hold the rush of thoughts the mention of B'Elanna bids forth.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asks, sympathetically

"Slept like a baby actually. But then I heard Harry's voice and I guess I woke up out of instinct."

"Was just listening to one of his comms," he admits, forcing his tone into something light. "Listened to one from Megan Delaney before that, but I guess the sound of _her_ voice doesn't register the way young Mister Kim's does for you."

"Comms from Stellar Cartography are rarely urgent the way ones from one's Ops officer are," she defends, a bit cranky from fatigue. "I'm sure it's nothing personal."

"Perfectly logical," he demures, unwilling to push the joke any further. "I'm sorry I woke you."

"It's alright. But once I'm up, I'm up. So now you're stuck with me." She sits down on the couch he's vacated, examining the rumpled pillow that's fallen to the floor. "Why are you up listening to comms anyway?"

"Couldn't sleep once I started to sober up. Woke up feeling like I got in a fight with Nausicaan, and once that passed couldn't settle down again."

"Aging is not an enjoyable process" she tells him, and her eyes zoom in on a half-full wine glass Tom must have missed when he was cleaning up. She picks it up from the side table, sniffs it, and takes a sip before setting it down again. "You should save yourself many a future indignity and not grow any older."

"I had a similar though earlier," he confesses, getting up from the uncomfortable desk chair and joining her on the couch. "Although I admit that offing myself didn't quite occur to me."

"Who said anything about suicide?"

"You did. Just now. 'Don't grow any older,' you told me two seconds ago."

"Coffee," she corrects him. "It stops time. All I meant is drink more coffee."

"Oh?"

"Yep. Works like a charm for me." She tries to hold the deadpan delivery, but apparently she's too tired. She throws her head back a little and laughs, the satin of her green pajamas rustling with the movement.

It isn't her usual laugh. Just a light chuckle that makes her shoulders shake and her nose wrinkle, her freckles evident even in the dim light. But the sound doesn't something to Tom, maybe throws an accelerant on the thing that's already been burning in the pit of his stomach, and so he does something characteristically shortsighted - something epicly reckless and boneheaded to ruin his roughly day-long streak of being a decent, mature human being. He leans his body over and presses his lips awkwardly to hers.

It doesn't take long, maybe a second, for the part of his brain that objects to his more idiotic antics to belatedly pipe up, and then he's pulling away, momentarily oblivious to the fact that the woman next to him never flinched.

"Sorry," he manages, and forces himself to meet her stare. She seems surprised, her eyes a bit wide, but not pissed like he expected. "I. . . Sorry."

"Don't be," she says softly, after a beat."That might be the best thing anyone has done for me in months. Years even."

"Well," he rubs his neck, "I have to say that it was done _entirely_ for my own benefit."

It isn't a lie. The delicious tension he's felt most of the day (perhaps always feel around her?) confirms this. It's something he never gave much thought to, what with being her mercenary for hire, and then her pilot, and then beyond that, his profound, blooming affection for another, if equally strong willed woman. But whatever his loyalties, however complete his understanding of protocol and proprietary, Tom knows this pull of desire always existed. It was just a question of manifestation and magnitude - and, until a minute ago, a perception of one-way current.

If he neatly tucked away this particular bundle of thoughts while on the ship, it's more because he accepted them than because they scared him. He'd learned at a young age that complication was an inevitable part of all manner of relationships. Or at least, a constant theme of _his _relationships.

"Is that so?" she challenges, her voice deep in her throat. And though Tom knows she's a woman who throws out a lot of quasi-signals that don't mean anything at all, _this_ he recognizes as an invitation.

When he kisses her again, its deeply enough to taste the smoky, dying notes of the Malbec.

. . . . .

He wakes up alone in bed. And though Tom has spent years of his life hoping to open his eyes to a bed vacant of the previous night's companion, the absence of Kathryn's body next to him is a thought that causes him a faint pain before his vision has even adjusted to the sunlight filling the room.

She could be awake and simply in another room, but there's only one way to find out, and in this Tom has to muster some bravery.

He isn't wearing any clothing, something he doesn't think to remedy. When he steps into the hallway, the faint smell of burned coffee finds his nostrils. His fear subsides before he even sees her.

"Morning," she says softly, as she peers out the window next to his kitchen table. She's wearing only her replicated pajama top and has managed to fold herself into the window's wide casement, her legs crossed in front of her and a mug resting in the small space between her pretzeled calves. She throws only a glance in his direction before she lifts the coffee to her lips. "Well, I guess technically it's midday."

"Technically," he repeats.

She says nothing else, which Tom takes to be a less than stellar sign. He has ample experience at judging 'morning after' scenarios, but little of it consists of sincere conversation or an endgame that doesn't involve his own speedy departure.

Truth be told, Tom has no idea what the endgame is for this, which is a big part of the problem.

"Hungry?" he asks instead, and she seems to contemplate the question with some seriousness.

"I don't think so."

"Not even for French toast? I make amazing French toast."

"Tom."

He leans awkwardly against his kitchen counter, now wishing desperately that he'd at least put on a pair of boxers. Because if there's anything more uncomfortable than trying to make small talk while naked, it's trying to strike a nonchalant pose in the same condition.

"Look," he says, with a casual gesture that belies all the fear he suddenly feels. "Suffice it to say that I don't regret what happened between us. But if _you _do, then I will accept that. And we will move on like the friends we are."

"I don't regret it," Kathryn informs him calmly, now holding her mug in both hands. "In fact, _what worries me_ is that I don't regret it all."

"I'm afraid I don't follow… I mean, how is that a problem?"

"Because, Tom," she says, and gives him a mysterious smile that conveys something other than joy, "of all the mistakes I've made, the few that that turned out to be truly_ cataclysmic_ were things that seemed like grand ideas at the time."

It's a confession that, from this woman, is probably more intimate than sex itself. Tom knows it, and has not a word to say.

"I like my eggs runny and my French toast perfectly crispy around the edges," she declares, pivoting herself out of her makeshift seat. He's grateful for the reprieve Kathryn's given him, but scratches his head in disorientation when a carefree grin appears on her face.

"Any other orders, _ma'am_?" He dodges a retaliatory smack on the rear as he turns away from her. "If not, I'm going to put on some clothes and start making your breakfast."

"Clothes?_"_ she repeats, her voice dripping with disapproval. "_Crazy talk._"

Tom decides the morning might just be salvageable after all.

. . . . .

"Will you tell me what Harry's comm said?"

She makes the request when they're lounging out on his flat's small patio. It's a small, utilitarian space with utilitarian furniture, but it gets a fair bit of sun. At least, now that the rains have moved on to other parts of Europe.

"The usual. More excited talk about his upcoming posting to the _Exeter._ Choice bits of gossip about our former crewmates."

"Such as?" She wiggles her toes, her bare feet propped in his lap. She's failed to put on much besides a long, buttoned down shirt that she apparently snatched from his dresser. He isn't complaining, though he himself felt compelled to put on a thin shirt and proper shorts before joining her on the balcony.

"Standard stuff," he laughs. "Who's sleeping with whom. Who's been spotted in romantic restaurants in San Francisco, or quietly requested transfers to be together, despite repeated public denials of any romantic involvement. You know, the kind of information that only Harry Kim can manage to get."

"There are few secrets in San Francisco," Kathryn sighs deeply.

"There are plenty in Marseilles," he notes, toasting her with his glass of water. "Take heart in that." He watches with interest as she flexes one pale, toned leg across the chair on which its draped. "Harry did say something odd though. About B'Elanna and Chakotay. Some of the others."

She makes a noncommittal sound in her throat, her voice becoming impassive. Tom runs a skilled hand up the muscles of her calve, his thumb applying pressure where necessary.

Kathryn doesn't react, one way or the other. For the first time since she arrived, he feels like he needs to choose his next words carefully. Politically.

"Harry said that no one's heard from some of them directly except for Ayala, and on that they only have Mike's testimony that they're alive and well. . . Not that Mike's to be doubted for any reason. But still. It's odd."

"It is."

"You haven't heard from him, have you?"

"Him who?"

They're voices are so casual, his hand kneading her bare leg and her feet creeping deliberately closer to his thigh, even a keen observer might miss the thin film of tension, may overlook the way Kathryn's expression never wavers and Tom' eyes are fixed on her bent leg: the perfect angle from which to watch her expression, without appearing to openly stare.

"Chakotay," Tom replies simply, his hands applying a little more pressure.

"No," she says, and flexes her leg again, this time against Tom's palm. "Not since the day they officially announced they were stripping him and everyone else of their field commissions."

"Everyone but me, you mean," he corrects, and the open pain in his voice ends whatever game they've been playing. He meets her gaze unabashedly. Watches as her eyes and lips immediately soften.

"Everyone but you," she whispers.

His only further comment on the situation is a forceful expelling of air, and Kathryn slouches down further, the wide collar of her loosely buttoned shirt giving Tom a spectacular view as he continues on to her to her other leg.

He's halfway up her knee when he begins to wonder about Chakotay; begins think about the two of them. He and everyone else on _Voyager _assumed there was something going on there, but if Kathryn went into the Delta Quadrant engaged to someone else, then popular belief was either completely mistaken or whatever _did_ happen was likely extremely short-lived.

Either way, he feels a ghost of pain for the Commander, because whether or not anything physically happened between Chakotay and Kathryn, he can't imagine the man ever got to see her _this_ unguarded. Which Tom decides is a tragic in a profound, Shakespearean kind of way.

"Does what you said earlier mean you're not going to tell Harry about this?"

"Hmm?" He's kind of zoned out, both given his own thoughts and the fact that her foot moved next to his inner thigh a minute ago, her toes applying strategic pressure.

"You said there are plenty of secrets in Marseilles." She digs her toes in a little more forcefully, his slight wince undoubtedly assuring her she now has his complete attention. "Did that mean you don't plan on telling Harry?"

The question takes him by surprise, so he doesn't answer quickly. He really has to think about it. "I don't know," he shakes his head honestly. "I admit I tell Harry pretty much everything. But in this case, you're, well, _you_. And Harry is . . ."

"Young, impressionable Mister Kim?"

"Head of the Captain Janeway fanclub," he winks, Kathryn scowling menacingly at him. "Which means the news _may _reset his view of the universe."

He can tell she's about to pounce on him by the way she draws back her legs in preparation. When she swings the lightweight chair cushion at his face, he grabs her by the arm and pulls her into his lap.

He's smart enough to know that she's letting herself be pulled (much larger and stronger men, of various species stretching across two quadrants, have learned the hard way that Kathryn Janeway is much stronger than her slight frame would indicate), and when he presses his mouth against the curve of pale flesh he's been fixating on for several minutes, he's rewarded by the swell of movement that comes with a rapid intake of breath.

"Perhaps it would be best if I didn't shatter poor Harry's world so soon after getting home," he muses, after he feels her grind slightly noticeably against his lap.

"Perhaps," she echoes, as his hands guide her hips, magnifying the friction.

He begins to shift his weight, intent on going inside to promptly finish what they've begun, but she stops him, destabilizing his weight once he's off the chair, and then pinning her body meaningfully against his, once he falls back down with a slight thud.

"Beautiful day," she purrs, her hand slipping into his shorts. "Silly to squander it by being indoors."

It's an idea that makes Tom a little uncomfortable. Reputation to the contrary, he's actually a private person and the idea of strangers spying him in a _personal moment_ isn't something that's particularly exciting to him.

"I do have _neighbors_," he manages, even as her hand wraps firmly around him. She gives him a wicked look, her back arched magnificently as she leans back to stare down at him, and he feels his resolve crumbling. He rolls his head back with a groan. "Granted, I've never spoken to any of them. And one of them, I think, actively dislikes me. So. . ."

She laughs, her hair falling against his neck, and he resists the urge to close his eyes against the afternoon sun.

Resists the thought that this is all too bright, too warm, too much.

. . . . .

They squander the next two days doing absolutely nothing of importance. They make a few short trips to other cities, clock a few hours in esteemed European landmarks. But mostly they eat and drink and enjoy each others' company until Kathryn's departure really can't be delayed any longer.

"I absolutely have to beam back to San Francisco tonight," she sighs, her voice slurred with contentment as she stretches out across the bed with Tom. They're both missing several articles of clothing and Tom's hands have already started to rove. "I haven't even _begun_ to read my briefing notes for tomorrow - and don't think for second, Thomas Eugene Paris, that I don't notice you mysteriously robbing me of my clothing every time I talk about beaming back."

"You rob _me,_" he defends, but it's barely audible as he kisses the bare curve of her hip bone.

"I'm a failure as a thief, remember?" she perries, and makes a halfhearted attempt to push him away. "This is all your doing. My failure to be a productive member of Federation society falls squarely on your shoulders."

Her version of events isn't exactly accurate, but isn't false either. Because as the days go on and Kathryn talks about leaving, Tom has begun to quietly panic. Not so much about losing her company and the idea that he'll wake up, once more, alone. This certainly brings him a significant measure of sadness, but it's to a degree that he's decided is manageable.

What Tom _does_ find genuinely terrifying is the looming reality of all his unresolved life decisions.

He's not going back to Starfleet, this much he's decided. But he's so uncertain as to _what else _to do that he's put off all the responsible things he should be doing in the meantime, like extending the lease on his apartment, assuming he'd like to stay here. He hasn't even sent his resignation to Starfleet, which is something he really, _really_ needs to do. And soon.

"You're right," he says, securing his hands on either side of hips and flipping himself on top of her, his weight entirely on his forearms. "You should go, _Captain._ The fate of the Federation hangs entirely on your getting back to San Francisco within the hour."

She glares up at him, even as she locks her legs around his narrow hips, pulling him downward.

"You're going to pay for that," she promises, and flips them both over, Tom landing beneath her rather inelegantly.

_Everything will keep, won't it? _

Surely a day can't make much difference.

_. . . . . _

As it happens, Starfleet sends Tom his orders the morning after Kathryn leaves Marseilles.

"Comm me when you have time," he'd said as he hugged her fiercely, and she'd let out a contented sigh at his words.

This isn't the beginning of a grand love affair. They both know this, and have discussed as much in the previous days. But this doesn't mean that Tom doesn't care about her or else that he won't miss her, and the insecure part of himself worries that Kathryn doesn't feel the same - won't view their newfound friendship (or whatever it is) with the same abiding fondness that he does.

"I will," she'd promised. "So long as you promise to behave when I'm comming from unsecure lines."

She was smart to ask, and so he'd nodded, kissing her forehead as she pulled away.

"Alright then," she said, sounding all business.

"Off you go," he'd waved, adopting the same tone.

It was sad, after all, but not tragic. And in truth, the second the realities of life hit him, he didn't have much time to spend dwelling.

He'd had to stay up that entire night packing, given that his landlord politely informed him, not even an hour after he bid Kathryn farewell, that someone else has signed on to take the apartment for the next six months, Tom's agreement with the owner expiring in exactly one day.

He's sitting at the flat's tiny console, literally writing the last sentence of his resignation letter to HQ - the last in a series of very tedious errands Tom simply what's to be_ done with_ - when the text-only comm arrives from Starfleet, the chime interrupting his train of thought, and so he scans the subject line of the incoming encrypted message.

_Attention: Notice of Posting. Lt. Paris, Thomas E._

He's already made up his mind, and there's absolutely no reason for him to read the orders; no need to see what obscure corner of the war Starfleet has apparently deemed him fit. But the thing about Tom that once drew him to Starfleet in the first place, the characteristic that simultaneously makes him wholly at odds with Starfleet regulations, is that he's just too damn curious for his own good.

His finger hovers over the screen for less than a second before touching it, summoning to view the full text of the comm.

_Notice of assignment  
>Effective: Stardate 51182<em>

_This communication serves as official notification, per Starfleet Code 297 Subsection 9, that Lieutenant Thomas E. Paris has been re-assigned as follows:_

_Chief Helmsman and Executive Officer,  
>USS Henry: NCC-74230, Defiant-class;<br>Cpt. Janeway, Kathryn E., commanding._

_Officer will report to Deep Space 4 by Stardate 51182.8 for further orders.  
>_<em>

Whatever Tom's measured interest as he reads the communiqué, the feeling promptly ends with the second to last of line of the comm's text.

He reads the phrase 'Cpt. Janeway, Kathryn E., commanding' three times over before it occurs to him to release the jagged breath he's sucked in.

And then everything seems to stop , or speed up, or both, because as deeply unfortunate as it would be to _somehow_ find himself in this untenable position of turning down an assignment under Kathryn, it's another level of hell - a fresh hell even Tom has yet to discover before - knowing that he's in this position due to the manipulations of someone he completely trusted.

Because no part of him, not one cell in his body, doubts that Kathryn directly requested his assignment on her new ship, doing so days (likely even weeks) before she came to Marseilles. Before she came to _him_, appearing every bit the friend and fellow traveler on this journey of acclimation, and accepting from him each and every intimacy he now suspects she knowingly coaxed.

He moves from confusion to pain to throbbing rage at record speed. His anger is all-consuming, so blinding that he can't even focus on finishing what he was doing, slamming the console closed with a violent motion that causes alloy to thunder against alloy; an ominous sound of something cracking right in half, and yet not providing any fraction of the destruction it would require to soothe him.

It's fortuitous that he's already packed and ready to go, having arranged the transport and storage of his belongings earlier in the morning. All he has to do is change his own transport destination, and within the hour he's standing in Starfleet Headquarters, his fists clenched and the untrimmed nail of an index finger cutting deeply into his palm.

_Briefings. She said had to go to HQ for tactical briefings. _

He might be dressed like a civilian, but the limited fame of being a member of the _Voyager_ crew, stacked on top of being Owen Paris' son, goes along way on the HQ campus. He speaks to one of the security guards, a familiar faced older man who smiles at him, and forces a companionable stance when the guy claps him on the back after Tom asks after Janeway.

"Here to surprise your former CO, huh?"

Tom doesn't reply that the correct word is 'ambush'; simply taps into that dark part of himself that can turn on the charm, get exactly what he wants no matter how much he has to lie or who he has to grift.

"I thought I'd buy her and my dad lunch. Maybe get her to tell a couple of stories together to impress the Admiral, ya know? Assuming Captain Janeway's still on campus. I'm not sure when her meetings ended. . ."

"She's still here," the guard acknowledges, scanning an illuminated screen by his desk. "Looks like she's in the Archer building, central campus."

"Thanks," Tom smiles, and gives the guy a wink.

"Welcome home, son," the guard tells him, which _should_ be enough to kindle a flame of remorse in Tom, but doesn't. Not even a little. "Enjoy your lunch. I sure hope Captain Janeway is thrilled to see her old pilot."

"Oh," Tom drawls, "I'm sure she will be. I've always been her_ favorite_."

. . . . .


	3. Hath the candle singed the moth

_III. Hath the candle singed the moth  
><em>

* * *

><p>Tom navigates the the campus of Starfleet Headquarters without having to think about where he is and where he needs to get to; even with the addition of a few new buildings, the vast majority of HQ has stayed the same. Which is good, given that from the second he quit the guard's desk, he's pretty much been on autopilot, his indignation growing with every step.<p>

He's so enraged, he has no idea what he's going to say to Janeway when he finds her. He doesn't think to prepare his verbal tirade, or mentally rehearse the litany of ways in which she's systematically violated the trust he put in her, first as an officer, and then as a friend.

With every breath, and every step, all he can think of is how gutted he feels. And how _alone._ And after a few dozen meters, how very stupid, how epically and singularly _foolish_ he had been, never once questioning her assertion that she arrived on his doorstep without an agenda.

Once he reaches the complex loosely referred to as the 'Archer building', he debates for a moment where to go. There are a dozen conference rooms that could be used for briefings, with a series of corridors and atria dividing them, but as there's only one real exit that anyone utilizes, the second, rear exit leading out to a series of garden paths that are attractive but never used by anyone but visitors, Tom decides to hold his position outside the building, at the bottom of the main staircase. He doesn't have to wait long (a fact he'll be grateful for when rational thoughts return to him), as after a few minutes, the doors slide open and a group of officers, Janeway among, spills out.

She's deep in conversation with someone - a vice-admiral Tom doesn't recognize - when she spots him standing below the stairs, her demeanor shifting just enough to indicate she's bothered by his presence. They make eye contact, Tom holding his arms straight at as his sides whilst standing his ground, and Janeway manages to break free of her interlocutor with remarkable ease. The admiral nods her farewell, Janeway doubling her speed down the stairs a moment later.

She isn't frantic, just expedient, and as soon she gets within range of Tom she holds up a hand in warning. "Not here," she says, and it's an order. Then begins walking down the path with the obvious intent for Tom to follow.

It should piss him off to the point of blowing his lid then and there, and he knows this, but seeing her back in uniform, with her hair pulled up sharply in a bun, triggers certain instincts of propriety that have been ingrained in him since childhood. "Fine," he growls, and follows on her heels at a speedy clip.

She keeps her eyes forward, ignoring his obvious if silent rage, but also marches directly past various officers who greet her, her pace never slowing when she sees them. When the two of them reach a row of low buildings - auxiliary offices, typically assigned as temporary workspaces - Janeway abruptly cuts across the grass, entering the first building and then keying in a code to one of the offices there.

She doesn't saying anything to him, merely closes the door behind him, and moves to the center of the room. Promptly begins to pace a small, agitated circle before she looks at him, discomfort plain to see.

He expects for her to start to explaining, to start covering, however artfully and eloquently. When that doesn't happen, he's at a momentary loss.

But then he opens his mouth out of some sort of blind instinct, and the words begin to come. "May I ask approximately what percentage of our conversations in Marseilles were sincere, and what percentage of them were lies?"

"None of it was a lie," she states solemnly, and the quasi-formality of her tone, the vague idea that she feels entitled to some sense of command distance from him makes him come unhinged.

"_Bullshit,_" he spits. "Are you going to tell me my being assigned to your fucking ship is a coincidence?"

"Of course not. Obviously I requested you."

"Good officers might be hard to find," he begins savagely, "but I would think giving out sexual favors on sunny balconies is a little extreme, even for wartime recruitment."

"Lower your voice," she orders, and when he only glares back in challenge, she folds her arms in front of her chest as her tone becomes more imploring. "Please."

Tom knows that it's theoretically within his power to ruin her. Humiliate her. Destroy her career in a very public spectacle. But none of this interests him in the slightest, because doing so won't put back together anything inside him he thinks this woman's managed to break into pieces.

"None of it was a lie," she begins again, this time less confident, "except the first two minutes of conversation. When you asked me if I came to talk you into staying in Starfleet."

"Yeah," he laughs mirthlessly, "I'm _already_ _clear _that part wasn't the truth."

"Yes," she sighs, "and then… well, no." She rubs her face and turns another circle. Pries off her uniform jacket and tosses it onto the desk, a stack of neatly organized padds clattering everywhere as she starts speaking again, punching out clipped sentences that way she does when she's agitated. "Tom. I came to France to talk you into being my pilot again. And then I _got there_ and you seemed so adamant about resigning. . . I thought pushing the subject would be a mistake. So, yes, I lied to you about why I came to see you. Because, frankly, once you started being…" she pauses, grasping for words, "started being _you_, I didn't want to lose the ease we shared by giving you some- some _misguided speech_. A speech that had zero chance of working anyway."

"You can't _possibly_ expect me to believe that!"

"Why would I _lie_ about something like this, Tom?" she asks, suddenly losing the last of her characteristic composure. "Take a look at the untenable position I'm now in. As of this moment, you are still an active officer and assigned to _my_ ship. I have now begun a _sexual relationship_ with the person I requested as my _executive officer_. Which, by the way, is professional suicide, should it ever come to light."

"It's a position you put _yourself_ in," he strikes back, unmoved by her appearance of turmoil.

"You said that you were resigning your commission! Forgive me for thinking that actually meant you would actually tender _a resignation._ And I never thought you'd see the assignment because I didn't think you'd be an officer anymore!"

"I was in the process of resigning!" he shouts, no longer able to keep frustration at an appropriate decibel. "Until I got a notice from Starfleet that I'd been _promoted_ and given the reins of a brand new ship."

She stops, caught off guard by his confession, which in turn causes Tom himself to think over what he just said. Forces him to turn over and examine the fact that he's basically asserted, in so many words, that he would have found the offer a tempting one, were it not for the surrounding context.

"Are you telling me that if the last four days hadn't happened, you would have accepted the assignment?" She asks the question with something approaching horror, and sits down heavily behind the desk.

"I don't know," he answers honestly, "partly because I still don't quite know what to believe."

"Fuck. What a mess," she whispers, and buries her face in her hands.

It's a strange sight, Kathryn Janeway in uniform, openly panicking in front of him. And if there's anything that makes him believe that some or all of this _isn't_ some elaborate charade, it's this. Kathryn might be capable of deceptions, and elaborate ones at that, but Tom's yet to witness any that involve her own personal humiliation.

"I can still resign," he states simply. "It's what I was planning on doing anyway."

"Tom," she says, and visibly pulls herself up. Begins to speak like the commanding officer he served under for over three years. "If you're at all tempted to keep your commission, I don't want you to have to throw it away because of this. Because of _me_."

"I can't serve under you now," he gestures wildly, "you said so yourself."

"You can request a transfer."

"To what? A nice little cargo route between here and Jupiter Station? _No thanks_. I'd rather toss in my pips and keep moving."

"I know," she sighs, sounding miserable. "I know."

Both of them fall into a morose silence, Tom staring intently at the scattered padds that now litter the desk and floor, and Kathryn fishing around for something in the pocket of her discarded jacket.

"In other news…" she sighs, and Tom looks at her like she's lost her mind.

"There's other news? Let me guess, I'm being sent back to prison?"

She finds what she's looking for - a memory chip, apparently - and loads it into a nearby padd before handing it to him.

"I was thinking about comming you tonight with this. But then, well. . ." A vague gesture between them completes her thought, and she hands him the padd. "I broke about a dozen regs to get this information, and I'm breaking about a dozen more to give it to you. So I'd appreciate it if you didn't broadcast this to anyone. Even Harry."

"What is it?" he asks, not bothering to touch the padd. He hasn't shaken off all his anger or suspicion, and being given information that's allegedly classified above his level - it makes him leery all over again.

"It's what you've been trying to find out for weeks," she says softly. "It's about B'Elanna."

"_What?_" he demands, but doesn't activate the screen. He can't. Not now that his whole body feels like it's gone numb.

"She's here," she nods with her chin toward the padd. "She's on Earth."

"Is this… a joke?"

"Afraid not," she tells him. "But I think you should go find her. Perhaps after you do, deciding what to do about everything else will get a little easier."

It's an incredibly thoughtful thing to do for him, and one that apparently came at great risk to her professionally. But the problem with it - really, the problem with everything so far- is that Tom understands too much about Kathryn to fully accept this gesture at face value. As believable as it is that she would go out on a limb to find him information about B'Elanna, he recognizes it as possible that something else is in play that she's simply choosing to omit.

His instinct is still to trust her. He fears, has perhaps long feared, that his blind desire to trust Kathryn Janeway could never be fully suppressed by anything, no matter the events.

It's for this reason that he reminds himself, holding the gifted padd with hope now gently fluttering beneath his breastbone, that instinct drives a number of species to fly directly into dancing flames, jump to their deaths from rocky cliffs.

. . . . .


	4. Something like devotion

_IV. Something like devotion_

* * *

><p>Given that Tom had zero expectation of finding Torres on Earth, it is, logically speaking, redundant to say he's shocked as hell to discover she's staying in a rural area in Oklahoma.<p>

But this what the padd that Janeway handed him indicates, Tom beginning to finally read it as he stands, now frozen on the same patch of grass he's been standing on since Janeway disappeared, back into the labyrinth of Starfleet Headquarters, after escorting him out several minutes earlier.

It's either a sign of complete devotion or else insanity (assuming there's even a genuine difference between the two concepts), the fact that he doesn't hesitate any longer before heading to the transport Janeway has already arranged, and thus immediately journeying to where B'Elanna's apparently been staying .It's the first of two transports, Kathryn had informed him, and from the second he'll actually be using a private, regional transporter. He would normally question the circuitousness of the journey, but at the moment he's too preoccupied with the idea of B'Elanna to spend any further time parsing out the nebula of Kathryn's possible motives.

All of the feelings he's pushed down about B'Elanna, from his unrequited longing to his feelings of rejection and pain, resurface with a vengeance, their chaotic churn sped by the newfound knowledge that she's been on the same damn planet for weeks and not bothered to contact him. Even more hurtful, she has actively and knowingly ignored all of _his _attempt to contact _her_, despite their proximity.

Later, he'll realize that these facts should have elicited from him _some_ sense of caution; _should have_ urged an approach speed slower than that of warp, and a plan more elaborate than that of _Go. Go now. _ But for all the differences between the person Tom presently is and the person he used to be, nothing collapses those diverging identities faster than the tantalizing if elusive possibility of belonging.

The idea of waiting, weighing his options, never occurs to him.

"Do you have a heavier coat?" the transporter technician, working in a tiny facility somewhere outside of Houston, asks him.

Tom shakes his head in the negative, having no patience for small talk at the moment, and indicates that he's more than ready to begin the transport cycle.

"Enjoy the weather," the tech mutters, clearly put off, and punches a command into his console. When Tom materializes on what he thinks is a hillside, he's greeted by a pitch black sky and a wind so unremittingly cold, it rips the breath from his chest.

He closes his eyes against the assault, covering his face with his arms out of instinct. He takes a series of disoriented steps forward, his body eventually makes contact with some sort of solid structure.

It's a small building, really more of a shed; old and obviously abandoned. Still, it offers a welcome rescue from the hellish wind, and for this Tom is grateful. He steps inside, bending to fit inside the doorway, and forces his breathing to even out as he slowly adjusts to the freezing air. He consults the padd he's still carrying, the illumination bathing the rusting metal interior of the shed with faint yellow light.

Below the transport itinerary Janeway provided him with, Tom had noted a map of a large, multi-structure compound, to which he's apparently been directly transported (he hopes). It would have been wise of him to study it at little closer, back in the comfort of the temperature controlled transports, rather than frantically studying it _now_, his hands and face already numb from exposure. Not that Tom has ever made a habit of doing anything the easy way. Though at some point, he now thinks angrily, maybe he should _really consider _changing that about himself.

"Freeze, right where you are," commands a familiar baritone voice, a bright light being shone directly in Tom's face.

"Not a problem. I'm fucking frozen already."

"Paris?" Mike Ayala grunts, dropping his wrist light to the ground, while also lowering the phaser rifle he was apparently aiming at him. "Goddamnit. I almost stunned you with my phaser. Do you have any idea how _pissed_ I'd be at you, if you'd made me phaser you by accident?"

"Right," Tom says, his teeth now chattering, "I'm an asshole for making you almost shoot me." He wraps his arms around himself, shoving his hands into his armpits. "Do you think maybe we could talk about what an asshole I am someplace out of the cold?"

"Come on," Ayala nods, grabbing him roughly by the arm and forcing him into the small hover vehicle that's waiting only a few meters away. It's then that Tom hears footsteps, several sets, falling in around them; the vague outline of each silhouette complete with a matching phaser rifle.

"It's only Tom Paris," Ayala calls out , and Tom can hear a couple grunts and two distinct swears. "I almost shot him. Can you imagine how that would have gone over?"

"Too bad you didn't," someone says, and a chorus of familiar laughter rings out: Yosa, Chell, O'Donnell, Dalby, among others.

"Screw you, Dalby," Tom retorts, and Ken Dalby slides into the seat next to him, a massive smirk on his face.

"Good to see you, buddy," Ken hits him on the shoulder. "Sorry about pointing my rifle at your head."

"Don't be," Tom blows into his hands, the artificial heat of the hover vehicle already working it magic on his exposed skin, "for a second, it was almost like the good old days."

The vehicle speeds up, two other vehicles following them closely. Ayala spares him a quick glance that Tom sees out of the corner of his eye, his own vision trained on the barren landscape they're now skimming at a quick clip.

"Is there a reason you didn't bring a decent jacket?" Mike asks, sounding almost fatherly, and Ken gives him a once over, too.

"Yeah, Paris. And where are your gloves?"

"I beam all the way here, to the _lovely splendor _that is Oklahoma in February, and all you can ask about is my attire?"

"Well, we know where you've been hanging out," Mike offers.

"And we can guess who you came to see," Ken tacks on.

"So, it was the only obvious question besides 'how's Harry?,' and the latter question we, frankly, already know the answer to. Just like we know that you should probably be halfway to Deep Space Four by now, assuming you're accepting your newest posting."

"Uh huh," Tom says, but doesn't continue the line of conversation.

If they've been keeping tabs on him, and apparently on Harry, and probably on the rest of the crew, why has been it impossible to find out where _they_ have been, short of having Starfleet clearance apparently greater than Kathryn Janeway's - and likely, too, a pool of power and connections that runs far deeper than that of a simple Starfleet Captain?

"This was my great uncle's land before he died and left it to me," Mike explains stoically, perhaps sensing Tom' change in mood. "I'm welcoming you here with the hospitality you've earned as a friend and former comrade." The vehicle stops, Ayala turning sideways to stare at him, his dark eyes large and intense. "Please don't make me regret this hospitality down the road, Tom."

"I won't," Tom promises immediately. And means it. Because as much as he doesn't understand what's going on here on Ayala's land, and as much he now heavily suspects that those phaser rifles were _not_ set to stun back there, he _does_ know_,_ to the very core of his being, that nothing will ever compel him to consciously betray any of his _Voyager _crewmates. "I won't," he says again, for good measure, and Mike simply nods.

"Good. Chakotay will be happy to hear it."

"Chakotay?" _Fuck. Shit. Fuck._

The gang's all here, so he should have seen that coming. But somehow, stupidly, he didn't, and he can see Dalby start to smirk all over again when his own face apparently falls.

"Don't worry, Paris. The old man's missed you. Talks everyday about how much he wishes you were here to offer your own particular brand of charm to our discussions."

"Yep," Yosa deadpans, falling in step behind them. "Everyday."

"Sometimes he even cries," Chell chirps, and Ayala's characteristically serious expression splits open with a sadistic smile.

"I think I liked it better when you were pointing weapons at my head," Tom sighs, as they enter a large structure that looks it was an old farmhouse before it was converted to whatever it is now.

Ken chuckles as they pass through a large foyer of what seems to still be a house. When the tile floor ends and wood (old, if carefully maintained wood) begins, everyone slips off their boots, and Mike shoots Tom a warning look.

"I get it," Tom defends, raising his arms in surrender as he slips off his own shoes. "No shoes on the wood floors."

"Good man," Mike nods, and they all spill into a large, expansive living room, Tom trailing behind everyone else.

"Everything alright?" Chakotay asks.

Tom can't see his face, Chakotay's voice coming out from behind an antique, overstuffed chair. He's angled away from them, facing a large if simple fireplace, a stack of padds piled on the armrest Tom can see.

"Fine," Dalby informs him. "It was just Tom-fucking-Paris."

"I almost shot him," Mike admits, sounding regretful.

"_Almost_?" Chakotay repeats, in a vaguely humored tone. "Hmm. Too bad."

"Hey!" Tom pipes up, "I'm starting to resent that joke."

The sound of his voice obviously takes Chakotay by surprise, the older man turning around abruptly in his seat.

The erstwhile XO looks from Tom's face to Ayala's, the latter of whom he shares a long if completely silent conversation with. It ends with Mike shrugging his shoulders, almost by way of apology.

"Come on," Mike says to the rest of the guys, who've been watching the interaction with unmasked interest, "let's go see if B'Elanna needs any help modifying the comm relay."

It's clear from the looks that both Ayala and Chakotay give Tom, he isn't meant to follow the group. And though Tom has never been one to follow directions, and the mention of B'Elanna's name out loud is enough to make him jump right out of wool socks he's now padding around in, the modicum of wisdom he's gained over the last few years tells him he shouldn't disregard the wishes of people who were pointing compression rifles at him only minutes earlier, even if they are (or were not along ago?) his _friends._

"Nice hairstyle," Tom says, by way of being a smartass. He might be wiser, but there's no way he's going to resist the urge to be a little mouthy. Realistically, Chakotay might be more suspicious if he did.

"Regulation cuts were never my favorite,"Chakotay admits, "though one of these days I'm going to have to trust either Hosa or Ayala with a pair of shears."

"Not Torres?" he ventures, testing the waters.

"I think we both know her mood is mercurial even in more Klingon-friendly climates. If it's a choice between letting her hold a sharp object near my head or growing my hair out further, I'll teach myself to braid."

It's a good-natured joke, the kind they would have shared on _Voyager_'s bridge if it was a week the two of them happened to be getting on well. But this isn't _Voyager_, and Tom recognizes that Chakotay's retort managed to match his tone without providing Tom with any additional information.

Maybe the direct approach is Tom's best option. "I came here to see her," he says, fighting the urge to cross his arms defensively. "I'm sure you've already guessed this. But that's my only agenda. Seeing B'Elanna."

"I know," Chakotay responds softly, kindly. Perhaps even a bit sadly.

"You do?"

"I do. Which is why I'm sorry I can't allow it."

"Can't _allow it_?" Tom hisses. "Damn it, Chakotay. You're not her big brother! You can't keep me from speaking with her just because -"

"I can't allow it," Chakotay cuts him off harshly, "because _she_ doesn't want to see _you_. It doesn't matter what I think, or want for her as her friend. This is about respecting B'Elanna's wishes. This is about the importance of her role here, and, consequently, my need to protect her."

"Her role in _what_, exactly?" Tom shouts, his rather limited ability to be diplomatic having already evaporated. He begins to pace along a particular slab of wood, his arms now gesticulating wildly. "I mean, really, Chakotay. What are you and Mike doing here, in this frozen corner of hell? What on this land is _so_ _damn important_ that that an unexpected beam-in was answered with half a dozen type-three-phaser-wielding soldiers?"

The outburst fails to merit any emotional reaction from the former Maquis captain, who merely remains seated, calmly watching Tom as he quietly sips from a small teacup he' picked up from the end table beside him. "If you're going to continue to insult our present location, the land we're on, I'd lower your voice a little. Mike didn't grow up here, but he _is _fiercely protective of this farm and everything it's stood for in his family; the long history of hardships that the people around here have survived." Chakotay sets his tea down, his eyes now ominous, and for the first time since Tom began shouting. "He won't take kindly to you disparaging this place. _Nor do I_, for that matter."

This stirs some guilt in Tom, and though he recognizes it might be a conversational tactic, he decides he's too exhausted to care. It's already been a long day. "I'm trying to understand all of this," he implores the older man. "Please. Help me."

Chakotay tugs at his ear, obviously debating something, and casts his eyes out a large window now plastered with falling sleet. When his attention returns to Tom, his features have softened slightly, and he gestures with his chin to a well worn leather chair near his own, beside the fire.

"Would you like some tea?" Chakotay offers, already standing up, and Tom doesn't stop him. He doesn't particularly care for hot tea, but it seems unwise to spurn a peace offering. He looks at the windowpane plastered with frozen rain and gets a chill just thinking about that painful wind being coupled with precipitation. Maybe something warm to drink might actually be nice.

"I never expected any of us to keep our commissions," Chakotay begins to explain, his voice floating in from the next room. "It was hard to watch good people, my people, lose the symbols of respect they'd fought tooth and nail to earn. But really, the deck was stacked against them with Federation politics, the mountain of abominable decisions civil and military leaders would have to publicly admit to if we were granted anything more than clemency for our alleged_ crimes._"

He returns to the room with another teacup that he gingerly hands to Tom before sitting back down in the armchair. Tom murmurs his thanks and quietly waits for the other man to continue.

"I feel responsible that I wasn't able to prepare everyone, especially B'Elanna, for what we'd likely be returning to. Maybe if I had more warning before we came back. . . Even then, there was no way to ready ourselves emotionally for what happened while we were gone. Finding out that the Cardassians were able to systematically murder so many of us…" Chakotay's voice breaks before he stops speaking entirely. He buys himself a pause by taking a long, deliberate sip from own tea. "I didn't expect to keep my commission, Tom. But if they would have offered it to me, I would have taken it. I would have happily fought in this war under the Starfleet banner, if only to be able to use the most advanced military technology in the quadrant to rain down fire and death on those who killed my friends."

This is the Chakotay Tom thinks he knows well. This is the old, Maquis Chakotay; a man who ate revenge for breakfast and for dinner, and was undoubtedly kept company at night by fitful dreams of smoldering Cardassian corpses and the sounds of his own dying people crying for help. Tom understands, in his own way. After all, he used to dream about three dead bodies more often than he dreamt about anything else. Still does, from time to time.

And yet, looking into a face openly lined by anger and loss, he realizes this is a different version of Chakotay than any he's already encountered; an amalgam of the Maquis rebel and the by-the-book XO he chose to be in the Delta Quadrant. Because the man Tom knew years ago would never consent to join the greater Starfleet cause for anything, nor would he ever openly speak his bloodlust out loud, where it could be turned over and analyzed - both by those around him and (more dangerously to his projects) the steady grinding of his own conscience.

"And what are you doing now, having been expelled from the Garden of Eden?"

Chakotay gives a dimpled smile, always one to appreciate a religious allusion. Tom can be a fool in many ways, but not knowing his audience, this isn't one of them.

"Let' just to say that I and others in my predicament - other like-minded people, shall we call them? - have found ways of organizing ourselves. Ways of helping the war effort, and thus helping the Federation, while not operating within the scope of their control."

There have been rumors, mostly unsubstantiated from what even Harry has said, of daring Maquis raids against the Dominion supply lines. Starfleet will neither confirm nor deny that such strikes have happened, partly because the official Starfleet line is that the non-planetary, paramilitary organization referred to as 'the Maquis' has ceased to exist.

"You're reconstituting the Maquis," Tom attempts to clarify. "Only this time you're fighting _alongside_ Starfleet, rather than against them?"

"Ah, but there_ is _no _Maquis,_" Chakotay says with a sarcastic voice and gentle wag of his index finger.

"Just some of the same people," Tom raises his eyebrows, "with the same weapons and ships, who used to call themselves Maquis."

Chakotay shrugs and takes a long sip of his tea before admitting, with a darkly satisfactory expression, "we may have fewer people now, but we certainly don't have fewer ships or fewer weapons."

"And this?" Tom asks, gesturing around the farmhouse. "What does this place serve as?" Chakotay shakes his head slightly, an indication that this is as deep as the rabbit hole goes for Tom, and so he tries a different question. "I don't mean to point out the obvious, but this lovely little patch of ice you have here is still very much on _Earth_. Aren't you afraid it's just a matter of time before Starfleet's knocking on your barn door?"

"Their policy toward our … activities goes a little beyond benign neglect. They haven't just been looking the other away while certain organized parties conduct movements against the enemy; they've been deliberately burying all evidence of our actions so that the public can't ask questions. They're monitoring us closely, or at least _trying to_, but they're also keeping the information classified at such a high level, most the brass can't even access it. Which reminds me," Chakotay sits up straight, setting down his drained teacup, "and my apologies for being an _unwelcoming host_, but who in the hell got you here? The transporter logged you under an alias we've given to one of our people, but we knew for a fact that it couldn't be him because he's near Cardassian space right now."

"Ah. Hence the little welcoming party."

"Well if I'd known it was you, I would have baked cookies," Chakotay volleys back, but then pointedly looks at Tom, obviously impatient for the question to be answered.

This is the start of a long conversation that Tom _really_ doesn't want to have with this particular man, but he also thinks Chakotay rightly deserves some answers, given what's on the line. "Janeway got me here."

"Janeway? Fascinating." It's clear from the way Chakotay say it that this fact has truly thrown him. He shakes his head, sounding impressed when he continues, "she must have had one hell of a time getting the information. Spirits knows they distrust her so much when it comes to us that they'd prefer to pile up all their data about us and burn it a bonfire before they'd let _her_ be near it for a nanosecond."

"So you don't think she sent me here in service to some Starfleet agenda? She laid it out as a personal favor to me, the possibility that I'd get to track down B'Elanna in person. But I have to wonder. . ."

It's a fear of Tom's that only grown as he and Chakotay have been talking. The stakes are high enough that he worries that just his act of coming here has set of some series of cataclysmic events that will harm his erstwhile crewmates.

"No," Chakotay states flatly. "Not possible. Kathryn and I might have come to disagree thoroughly about a lot of things, but I will say on her behalf that she would resign her commission before she let herself be used to hurt members of her former crew… If sending you here was part of an agenda, it's an agenda entirely of her own."

"Well _that_ narrows it down," Tom mutters darkly. Which causes Chakotay to chuckle, if clearly at Tom's expense. Tom allows it without retaliation, if only because he was the one who made Chakotay's professional life a living hell for several months, as part of Janeway's plot to catch Jonas.

"How far the Captain's pet has come," Chakotay drawls. "This new attitude will make things a bit more interesting aboard the _Henry_."

"Come again?" Tom asks, and almost spills his own tea in his lap.

"Kathryn's new ship," Chakotay replies easily, and looks for a specific padd in the stack next to him. "I know she requested you as her pilot."

"Well. I was going to - to tell you the truth, I'm not quite-"

"Brother," Chakotay mutters, but to himself rather than in response to Tom's stumbling attempt to form a thought. He's reading his padd now, obviously interested in the lines of text he's quickly skimming as Tom looks on. "The USS _Henry_: one of the new, defiant-class ships Starfleet built to combat the Dominion. Small vessel, even smaller crew complement, but with more firepower than two galaxy-class cruisers combined." He looks up, over his padd, perhaps to gauge Tom's expression. "Second in command is usually the tactical officer, but it makes as much sense to have that executive weight behind the conn. The ship's power is a complete waste without someone who can really maneuver it, make it sing."

"You sound envious," Tom tsks, not letting it show that part of that information was new to him. He isn't sure what Chakotay knows and what he doesn't, but it's clear the man has friends in strategic places if he has that much information at his fingertips.

"Envious of that ship?" Chakotay rejoins. "_Hell yes._ Envious of taking orders from Captain Kathryn Janeway? Not in the slightest."

"You were friends six weeks ago," Tom observes neutrally.

"We were friends _seven_ _weeks ago_," Chakotay corrects, pinpointing the terminus as prior to getting home. Before Janeway's decision to ally with the Borg, and whatever debates the two of them must have had leading up to it. "A lot can happen in much less than seven weeks."

It reminds Tom of something Kathryn said to him her first day in Marseilles; he'd made some inappropriate joke, and she'd seem surprised that he was still the same lighthearted man he was, back on _Voyager._

"_A lot can change in five weeks," she said._

"I'm thinking about resigning my commission," Tom confesses,feeling oddly honest, despite the difficult rapport he's often shared with his interlocutor. "Well, actually, I had _every intention _of resigning it already, but then this assignment came through and I - I find myself more tempted than I expected to be."

"Are you torn because of the assignment, or because of who's offering it?"

Chakotay can't know exactly what he's asking, is no doubt simply referring to the fact that Tom has always been Kathryn Janeway's personal project; a fact that once bothered Chakotay to no end, and perhaps still might.

It strikes Tom with some force when he realizes the context of the question changes nothing as much as it changes everything.

"The former," Tom posits. "But how do I unknot the two? How do I consider this ship as anything more than a carrot that Janeway's held out?"

"You don't," a venomous voice from behind them responds. "Which is why you'll follow the carrot like the well trained pet you are."

It's a voice Tom has thought about, obsessed about, for six weeks in fits and stops. He's out of his chair and turned around to face her before B'Elanna's even finished her sentence.

"B'Elanna," he says, and takes a step toward her. Takes one single step, before he's stopped by the obvious rage in her in eyes and the way she lifts her chin up in defiant warning.

"The new encryption sequence is active," she informs Chakotay coolly, "but we'll have to start sending data in smaller chunks after this." She adds, pulling out a data chip from the voluminous silver coat she's wearing and tossing it in Chakotay's lap, "and your sister sent you another letter."

She spins around to leave, apparently done with both men, and Tom is at a loss for what do. He didn't expect an overwhelmingly warm reception from her, but _this_ - this mix of rage and apathy is something for which he is unprepared.

"B'Elanna, I came here to see you," he tells her. "I've been sending you comms for weeks."

"I know," she tells him, attempted to sound disinterested though her expression is unmistakably angry. "I was mildly surprised at the length of your attention span. I assumed you'd give up after a few days."

"Give up? On our friendship? Why would I do that?"

"Because we aren't _friends,"_ she corrects him harshly. "Maybe I could pretend we were, _out there,_ but even then I knew I was simply a hobby. A collectable. Something for you to chase when you weren't busy laughing with Harry Kim or playing your little Starfleet games with Janeway on the bridge."

_Janeway._ B'Elanna says the name with such venom, Tom feels like he's been caught in something. And perhaps there's a chance he has, depending on _how closely _Chakotay's been keeping tabs on people.

It's a paranoid possibility he dismisses as extremely unlikely, if only because Chakotay didn't break every bone in his body the second he laid eyes on him.

He fills with guilt. And then confusion. And after that, slowly if steadily, anger.

"What in the hell did I ever do to you to make you think were just a hobby?" he demands of her. "And if you're so disinterested in my friendship, what do you care _where_ I go or _whose_ orders I follow?"

"I don't," she tells him. "It's just pathetic to see someone being dragged around by the nose. Even Harry had the sense to move on and stop following Janeway around!"

Tom's had enough at this point, and feels on the verge of saying any number of things he will regret. He doesn't look at B'Elanna anymore, but instead at Chakotay, who gives him a harsh, knowing look that makes Tom wish he'd listened to the older man in the first place.

_He tried to warn me. _

When Tom stops defending himself, stops shouting and take the bait, B'Elanna leaves the room, stomping down another hallway, shouting at Dalby about a problem with a power transfer rate as she goes.

Tom closes his eyes to collect himself, but he's so upset he can feel his hands shaking. He hears the only other person left in the room let out a long, heavy breath, and then the rustle and squeak of someone adjusting themselves in their chair.

"Try not to take it too personally," Chakotay says flatly, and Tom gives him an incredulous look.

"You're kidding, right?"

"It's not you she's angry at," Chakotay shakes his head, "it's Starfleet. . . Hell, maybe it's the whole quadrant."

"All I've ever done is try to be her friend," Tom whispers angrily, and Chakotay stands up from his chair.

"She'll remember that. Eventually. But in the meantime,_ you _have to remember that you're being given the clean slate that B'Elanna and the others weren't. It's human for her to be upset at you for it, even if it's unfair."

"But half the reason I want to toss in my pips is because of the bullshit Starfleet pulled with you guys!" Tom rakes his hand through his hair as he says it. He's beginning to think he can't win with anyone here.

"Do you think B'Elanna hasn't thought of that? Do you think she doesn't know you've considered resigning?" Chakotay presses, now sounding like he might share B'Elanna's anger. "Tom, it's much different to be the one who has the advantage of_ choice _- to be the in a position of power afforded by the freedom to _decline_ - rather than simply being rejected, again, by an organization one never felt at home in."

"Coming here was a mistake," Tom whispers, now giving himself over to the exhaustion he's kept at bay. "I'm sorry. I won't take up anymore of your time."

"Wait," Chakotay stops him, sounding oddly calm again. "You haven't even finished your tea."

"I think I've had my fill."

"You were my crew too," Tom hears him say, and so turns back around to face him. "It might not have started that way, but by the end you and everyone else on that ship were my people. My crew."

"I know that," Tom acknowledges simply. Because he isn't asking for anymore explanations. Doesn't expect Chakotay to defend any of his choices, let alone his loyalty to B'Elanna.

"What I'm saying is that you're still one of my people. For whatever that's worth. And if you're wrestling with something, I'm here. If I can help."

"You have enough on your plate," Tom waves him off dismissively, "but thanks for the tea."

"If you walk out now, walk out like the shortsighted coward you used to be, I'm not lending you a thermal coat. You'll freeze your stubborn ass off before the station can even get a transporter lock on you."

It's a mild threat, coming from a man who dispatched a group of phasers to greet him, but Chakotay's insistence goes a fair way in eroding Tom's desire to cut and run. And it _is_ cold outside.

"I don't know what I'm doing," Tom confesses finally. "Part of me feels like a coward if I don't do something to fight in this war, and another part of me is terrified because I have no idea what else to do with my life without Starfleet. What if going _back _means compromising beliefs that are the core of who I am? "

He leaves unstated the thought that he's spent his entire life before _Voyager_ running away from things, and that since returning to the Alpha Quadrant he's been trying desperately to find something to run _toward_.

"And then here's the Janeway element," Chakotay adds.

"And then there's the Janeway element," Tom grimaces.

"There are no perfect choices," Chakotay tells him. "Sometimes, if you're lucky, there are ones that will you make happy. More often than not, it's simply about choosing the thing that you can live with."

It isn't a shiny truth, but it_ is_ true. Tom already knows this. But now he turns the thought over quietly in his mind. "When did get to be so smart?" he asks dryly. "You certainly weren't this smart back on the ship. Or else the ship before that."

"Oh, I _was_," Chakotay corrects, "but you couldn't hear my reverberating wisdom over the constant stream of your own bullshit."

"Likely story," Tom mutters.

"Let me grab you a coat. Otherwise sounding like an idiot will prove difficult for you, once we walk out in the wind and you can't feel your lips."

"So distrustful that you have to walk me out?" It isn't a serious question exactly, but Tom_ is _a little curious as to how much Chakotay is compelled to doubt him, on the mere principle that he's not one of 'them'.

"No need. Torres has rigged enough unpleasant surprises around the sensitive locations that an escort is unnecessary. However," he says, zipping up his own jacket and then throwing one to Tom, "I need to check on some Forsythia plants anyway. See if I need to trim them down, closer to their roots, so they'll survive all this sleet."

"You're going out to _garden_? In this?"

"Basic rule of life, Paris. The more you're willing to toil through harsh winters, the more plentiful your springs turn out to be."

"Very poetic. Have you ever considered writing children's books?"

"It isn't too late to have Ayala phaser you," Chakotay warns him, as they pass through the doorway and out into the cold. "We could even make it look like an accident."

Tom lets Chakotay have the last word, if only in this particular matter. It's a small repayment for the kindness he knows he's been extended. Not to mention he'd rather not be stripped of the warm coat he's just been lent.

"They'll make it," Chakotay pronounces, squatting to check on a row of neatly trimmed shrubs that line the outside of the farmhouse.

Tom doesn't say anything, a sarcastic quip dying on his tongue. He puzzles over the single-minded devotion someone must have, keeping tabs on a sad, barren plant that's encased in a few centimeters of ice and snow.

They walk a little ways further, their boots sliding across the frozen grass, and Tom begins to wonder idly what Chakotay's loyalty will yield, come warmer weather.

. . . . .


	5. Things with teeth

_V. Things with teeth_

* * *

><p>The second Tom puts boots on the ground at Deep Space Four, he feels a perceptible, psychological shift.<p>

It vaguely occurs to him (in some corner of his crowded mind) that it feels a bit like piloting a small ship along an immense gravity field - one into which it has already been pulled, and from which it cannot easily escape. The comparison gives him little pause, and he files away with countless other thoughts on which he has neither the inclination nor the energy to dwell.

After leaving the Maquis compound in Oklahoma, he'd spent a few hour wandering around the streets of San Francisco, a city he'd fled six weeks earlier, given his desperate desire to shake Starfleet and the choking fog of its many manifestations. He began to question , watching as small crafts of infinite variety passed over the Golden Gate, whether that escape had been mostly cowardice; an immature, shortsighted attempt to put off making any commitments as to his future.

Once back in San Francisco, surrounded by people in uniforms and overwhelmed with flashing vids of the failing campaign against the Dominion, he felt a pull of something, the momentum of which steadily overtook him. He contemplated, alone and uncharacteristically solemn, Chakotay's advice to him about choices. It was after midnight when he sent Janeway a text-only comm, encrypted and wisely vague.

_"Have decided to accept USS Henry assignment. Can discuss any ensuing complications in person, on Deep Space Four."_

He wasn't sure how she'd feel about it, nor did he particularly care that his decision put her in a difficult position. If Kathryn wanted him off her ship at this point, she was going to have to transfer him herself, and this, he suspected, she simply wouldn't do.

And he'd been right.

Now, making his way to Deep Space Four's sickbay for standard screening, he navigates through cluster after cluster of officers of various divisions, all clad in the same grey-shouldered uniforms. He rounds a corner, and a crewman gives him a crisp nod a beat after scanning Tom's neck and taking note of the three pips there. He fights the urge to finger the third (black) pip - a recent addition he picked up only an hour ago and in same office as he was provided his new uniform, Starfleet bureaucracy proving remarkably efficient while at war.

"Crewman," Tom nods back in an effortless, authoritative tone that comes to him without premeditation, the one-word greeting of rank being a vast tonal language, the knowledge of which will never leave him. A single utterance must be able to convey both position and opinion; things from admiration or respect to annoyance or (most dangerous of all) the signal of career-ending displeasure. It's a language Tom was fluent in by the time he was a mere cadet, all of his peers still struggling with the basic rules, let alone their exceptions. By the time he'd arrived on _Voyager_, he'd pretty much reached the level of poet: able to subvert standard meanings artfully and with exact precision, his true message rarely, if ever, lost on his chosen audience.

He's still contemplating the complexities of language and utterance when he rounds another corner and walks directly into the back of someone else. He starts to apologize, only to realize there are a lot of someones, all standing around, and some of them shouting. It seems he's located the space station bar, the unwisely (or simply prophetically) named Warp Core Breach Pub, in front of which a bar fight has apparently spilled out, into the open corridor.

Tom has no idea where the station security personnel are, which is unfortunate, given that one side of the fight - a pudgy, if appallingly foul-mouthed Bolian - is _clearly_ about to be severely injured at the hands of five exceptionally pissed off Andorian males. "Shit," Tom mutters to himself, because station security is still no where to be seen, and no one else is stepping in. _And this is a brand new uniform, damnit. _

But into the fray he goes, pulling one kicking Andorian off the guy, and then another. Too bad that at this crucial juncture, the Bolian says something profoundly defamatory (not to mention physically improbable) about the first Andorian's mother, and the whole pack descends again, except now with Tom in the middle.

He gets knocked to the floor, where's he's given two good kicks to the ribs and soon after feels someone biting him on his thigh (biting his_ inner_ _thigh _for heaven's sake), and then, mercifully, he hears someone barking orders in Federation standard, if replete with a few widely understood Terran curses. Methodically, the Andorians piled on top of Tom get pulled off one by one before they're sent flying into the nearby wall.

"You alright?" the source of assistance asks Tom, offering him a hand up.

"Yeah," Tom grunts, relatively sure his bones are unbroken and he has no gaping wounds. "Thanks."

When he gets to his feet, he's surprised to see the gruff voice who gave rise to those colorful curses is wearing a medical uniform and, more strikingly, that his face looks familiar, if only from the ship personnel files Tom reviewed for about ten minutes, in transit to the station.

_Shit._

"Lieutenant Commander Paris," the guy nods, already smirking a little. "I'm Lieutenant Baker -"

"The new CMO of the _Henry_," Tom finishes, and hopes he's managing to completely cover the humiliation they both know he feels. "Nice to meet you, Doctor."

"Call me Clint, sir."

"You don't go by Ronin?" Tom asks, remembering just enough about the guy's file to recall his first name.

"Would _you_, sir?"

"Fair enough," Tom laughs a little, watching as the station security finally arrives. "Though why Clint?"

"Clint is my middle name," Baker informs him. "Ronin is after a grandfather I never really knew."

They watch with disinterest as the drunken Bolian continues to hurl insults at the detained Andorians. Tom nods his head down the corridor, in the direction of the station's sickbay, where he'd been headed before all of this. "I'm due down in sickbay. Routine physical."

"Me too."

"Excellent," Tom clasps his hands behind his back, trying to claw back a modicum of authority. "Walk with me."

"Certainly, sir." They make their way down the corridor, Baker half a step ahead of him, and Tom mentally shakes his head, thinking of how hopelessly uninsightful personnel pictures are.

Starfleet, like almost every bureaucracy in the galaxy, from militaries to prisons, favors still-vids that are tight headshots, despite that such a bias invariably leaves out other, often _valuable_ identifying information . In the case of Clint Baker, this means that a scan of his file provides only a glance of a dark-haired Human male with a smallish chin and wide-ish nose, set in what feels a rather compressed face. Much more helpful to know, Tom thinks to himself with agitation, would be that you can see the guy's arms from five light years away, and that class-two shuttles easily have enough clearance to land on either of his shoulders.

"You first, Lieutenant Commander," Baker gestures respectfully, once they're inside sickbay. But something about the way Baker hangs back makes Tom think there's something else going on.

"Don't tell me my new doctor is afraid of hospitals," Tom prods lightly, if with enough of a lingering look that the Lieutenant feels compelled by protocol to answer him.

"I just need to have something looked at," Baker informs him, but with the weight of Tom's continued observation, eventually confesses, if in somewhat of a hushed voice, "back there, when I was breaking up that fight. . . one of those blue bastards _bit me._"

"Bit you?" Tom repeats, managing to sound a bit appalled. "Huh. You don't say."

. . . . .

"Don't take this personally, Clint, but you look like the kind of guy who would specialize in tearing people's arms off. Not re-attaching them."

"I get that a lot at medical conferences," the Lieutenant admits to Tom, and sounding only half joking, as they make their way from sickbay.

They'd both finished up at the sametime, exiting their respective physicals a few seconds apart. It seemed rude not to walk together to their next destination: the presently docked USS _Henry_.

"So how'd you end up in medical?"

Baker gives Tom an odd look at the question, sizing him up in a way that betrays the limited wariness one can appropriately broadcast to a CO one's just met. "I started in tactical," he informs Tom hesitantly. "But that information's all in my file."

"Forgive me for not having studied it," Tom promptly offers. "I tend to have a bias against relying on Starfleet summaries as introductions to personnel. My own history may, admittedly, have something to do with that."

It isn't a lie, as Tom genuinely believes that studying people's biographical history (as neatly summarized by Starfleet bureaucracy) can give a CO a rather skewed idea of what they're in for with regard to an officer. But it's an explanation that neatly dodges the fact that Tom is very much behind in his homework on the USS _Henry_'s crew, as almost all of the limited time he had in transit was spent pouring over information on every aspect of the ship's systems, rather than its personnel.

He's going to be playing catch up for weeks, and he knows it. He was just lucky he even remembered Baker's full name from his file, as _that _kind of gap in knowledge would have turned an already embarrassing first meeting into a total humiliation for a new CO.

"I switched to medical about ten years ago," Baker explains, apparently appeased by Tom's answer. "After I had to watch a friend of mine, my boss at the time actually, almost die on a mission."

"What happened?" Tom asks him. Only they're in a turbolift now, a narrow, dark little thing compared to what's standard on most ships , and Tom has to consciously focus in on Baker's words over the sound of his own heart racing in his ears.

"We were doing some intel work in this dive bar not far from the Klingon homeworld. He was stabbed through the back by a seriously nasty melee weapon." He says it nonchalantly, but Tom sees his hands twitch as his sides. Which doesn't help Tom in keeping his own hands from twitching. "I was with him the whole time, got him out of there and eventually back to our beam-out point. But I didn't have any medical training beyond what every officer gets, so there wasn't much of anything I could do for his injuries, except wait."

"But he made it?"

"Well, technically, he died. But a very talented doctor brought him back to life and, yes, now he's just dandy."

"And that somehow launched the beginning of your medical career?" They've cleared the turbolift at this point, and so Tom no longer has to mask short, panicked breaths when he asks the question.

"Watching my friend and mentor bleed out in front of me was the most useless I'd ever felt; I vowed to never feel that helpless again. _So._ I cross-trained as a medic on the side, and little by little that interest took over. I got more invested in putting people back together than breaking them apart." Clint pauses, sounding more serious when he continues, "I haven't been in the business as long as a lot of other CMO's, but I _have_ treated more trauma injuries than most - including ones from species that have a bias toward some rather _imaginative_ projectile weapons, as well as non-standard energy configurations."

"Good to know," Tom raises his eyebrows. "Although I hope I never have to benefit from you knowledge firsthand."

"An unrealistic aspiration," Baker shoots back, "as you averaged one severe or life-threatening injury a year, over the course of your last post. Unrelatedly," he pauses, looking thoughtfully over at him, "may I ask you a personal question?"

"You aren't my type," Tom quips, without missing a beat.

"Crushing," Baker perries, "but it's actually about your claustrophobia."

"I see thatyou _do_ study files."

"It's my job," the Lieutenant defends unnecessarily. "Forgive me for asking directly, but I couldn't help but notice your reaction in the turbolift back there."

"Reaction?" Tom begins to lie, but then decides stalling won't help anyone. "I thought that I actually covered my irrational, crippling fear remarkably well while we were in that moving coffin."

Baker snorts before asking, "Is it always that bad?"

"Yes," Tom affirms. "And no, depending. I don't react to everything that one would think a claustrophobic would react to, oddly enough. Tiny shuttles, Jeffries tubes, and even the odd EV suit are no problem."

"Fascinating," Baker intones, and Tom smiles a little to himself, suddenly missing Tuvok.

Tom checks the corridor around them to see that it's free of anyone in earshot; they're near the outer docking ring now, which means not many people are milling about.

"It got worse after my stint in prison," he confides, a little surprised at his own candor. However quick he is to reference his own status as an ex-con, he rarely talks about what happened _inside prison _with anyone, even his best friend.

"Not surprising," the other man laments. "Federation prisons being the _philosophically enlightened_ places that they are, I'm sure the safest place for an admiral's son was in solitary confinement."

Tom reflects that being an admiral's son was nothing compared to the liability of being an attractive young man with boyish looks. But this he'll say out loud to no one, not even Harry Kim. "Solitary was always a blessing," he says instead, "right up until I was actually _in_ _it_ for, oh, five minutes."

"These new defiant-class ships aren't exactly roomy," Baker cautions, now getting around to what Tom suspects is his real agenda. "Is it going to impact your duties?"

"No," Tom states confidently. And adds, given that he's already confided stuff that's more sensitive than this, "one of the first things I did was call up the specs for the ship's turbolifts, among other things. Happy to say there's more than enough breathing room there for me."

"If you ever change your mind about that, be sure to let your friendly doctor know."

"Aiming to climb up the ship's rank ladder so soon?" Tom deflects, sounding cheerful. "Maybe bump the present XO off with a bad psyche eval?"

"Hell no," Baker laughs, the deep, reberating sounding rolling out from him like thunder as they stop to clear a security checkpoint. "I assure you that medical charts are the upper limit of my bureaucratic skills, so a promotion would not suit me. _However_. . . I view managing the crew's stress levels as one of my top priorities. My experience tells me that being able to mentally level out is a basic necessity of the kind of work we'll be doing."

They pass through the last set of doors before the final corridor that actually connects ship to station begins. Just feeling this close to a new ship makes Tom's palms itch a little with excitement. "And what kind of work is that?" he asks blandly, abruptly slowing his pace when they pass a floor-to-ceiling viewport, out of which the _Henry _can now be seen.

Tom has read all the specs on all the ship's impressive weaponry and, thusly, knows that the _Henry _is equipped with six torpedo launchers, three phaser emitters, some seriously lethal phaser cannons, and even ablative armor. He also knows that it's a ship that's been built for speed, theoretically able to maintain a warp factor just over 9.98 for a nail-biting twelve hours.

But _knowing_ something and _feeling_ something are completely different things, and catching his first direct look at the first ship he is to fly after _Voyager_ (a ship that was agile and efficient, if outfitted for exploration), Tom has what can only be considered a primal reaction.

"Definitely _not_ humanitarian missions," Baker responds dryly to the question Tom has already forgotten asking, both of them staring, their reflected mouths a bit agape, at the daunting mass of dark alloys that looms, dangerous even its stillness, on the other side of the viewport.

"I didn't know a ship could be so sexy," Tom admits, "and I'm a _pilot._"

"Try not to be seduced too quickly."

"Why? You ever been in one of these?"

"No," Clint shakes his head, already turning on his heel. "But she gives off the same first impression that my girlfriend does."

"Oh?" Tom asks, his interest piqued. "Your girlfriend come equipped with heavy phaser cannons?"

"In a manner of speaking," Clint mutters, and then expounds, in a louder tone, "she's Russian. And still _very much_ in the business of pulling people's arms off."

Tom soon follows the Lieutenant, a bit grudgingly given the present view, as Baker makes his way down the corridor. It's a short, straight shot and then one final left turn before they're standing in the _Henry_.

"You up for a bit of tire kicking?" Tom asks, a reference that Baker, understandably, doesn't seem to understand. "I think I'm going to explore the belly of the beast before I check out the crew quarters."

"I have a meeting with Captain Janeway in ten minutes," Clint tells him, by way of apologizing. "Speaking of which, any advice there?"

"With Janeway?" Tom furrows his brow. Baker doesn't exactly come off as being a brown-noser, and he's too experienced an officer to be nervous about these things the way poor Harry was.

"It's come to my attention that I tend to make lousy first impressions on new CO's. And while I don't give really give a targ's ass about that normally_,_ I've decided it might be a nice change of pace to _not_ spend the first six months of this assignment climbing out of a hole my big, fat mouth managed to dig in the first five minutes."

Tom smiles widely at this, recognizing something he's perhaps already seen in Baker: a kindred spirit.

"Janeway might be Starfleet through and through, but she's not particularly by the book." He hesitates as he decides (immature bastard that he still is) that no one is ever _properly welcomed_ to a crew without a bit of hazing. He leans in, appearing earnest when he warns, "her one big hangup is the protocol about female captains still being called 'sir.' It's something she takes _very _seriously, so definitely stick to the book on that one. If not, you'll offend her immediately."

"Got it," Clint nods. "Always call her 'sir.' Easy enough."

"Easy enough," Tom repeats, and gives him a toothy grin.

"Thanks, sir," Baker bids him stiffly, perhaps practicing for Janeway.

"It's 'Tom' off the bridge," he corrects Clint, already feeling the stirrings of guilt regarding his prank.

"In that case, _Tom_, try to keep your ass out of my sickbay for as long as possible. I'd rather not have to put you back together until we've at least cleared Federation space."

"You got it, Doc," Tom nods, his guilt now vanquished. "Good luck with that first impression."

. . . . .

Tom spends a solid two hours poking around the corners of the _Henry_. On a large ship, it would barely be enough to cover a few of the major systems, but on the _Henry_ it buys him a methodical tour of the forward and aft phaser emitters, the deflector array, the two surprisingly generous science labs, the warp core, the bridge, and, finally, his own quarters. Such as they are.

The ship is small enough that Tom and the Captain are the only officers who aren't saddled with the hardship of a roommate. Despite this particular privilege of rank, he struggles to feel very grateful, given that his quarters must also double as his office, and are also located on deck one, only one corridor from the bridge, and (worse) directly opposite Janeway's own quarters.

He surveys the utilitarian space skeptically, and then begins to check that the storage bins filled with his personal effects have been delivered in their entirety. It's a good thing he doesn't own much. If he did, there wouldn't be room to walk from his bed to the bathroom, let alone the bed to the full sofa that some idiot from the Fleet requisitions office apparently decided to cram in here. What were they even thinking?

'_Should we opt for a comfortable arm chair here? No, let's go with an entire sofa, that way the occupant of these quarters can reach both the latrine and the replicator, without ever getting up.'_ Tom continues to compare the relative intelligence of form pushers to that of legumes, and for a remarkable amount of time, until his door chime interrupts his sarcastic inner rantings.

"Come," he calls, expecting it be Baker, no doubt relatively fresh from stepping in it with Janeway, and therefore out for revenge.

"Sorry to interrupt your unpacking," Janeway apologizes.

They have a meeting scheduled in thirty minutes - no doubt, part of the reason Tom' mood has gone to shit - but given the proximity of their appointment time, he's surprised to see her. He isn't sure how well he hides it, though he certainly tries, adopting the same professional, matter of fact tone that she does.

"No interruption." He adds, unsure what else to say, "I'm just contemplating the apparent genius of whoever requisitioned the furnishings for these quarters."

"A couch of this size is a regrettable choice," she concludes, having looked around. It's small talk. But small talk is the only safe thing that Tom thinks they have left, all things considered.

If only she at least _looked_ as uncomfortable as Tom himself feels.

"So," he begins, "what can I do for you, Captain?"

"A priority comm I'm supposed to have with HQ has been bumped up, and I need to move our meeting to accommodate it. Care to speak with me now?"

"Sure," Tom agrees immediately, grateful she's here in a professional capacity. "If I can just have a moment to grab two padds…"

"Of course," Janeway nods. "I'll see you in my ready room."

It takes a minute of hunting, but Tom finds the padds in question and then makes his way down the corridor, through the presently empty bridge, and then strides through the doorway to Janeway's office.

Intellectually, he knew that the ready room on this particular ship would be a downgrade from the one Janeway had on _Voyager_, only the newest of the defiant-class ships even having ready rooms at all, but Tom is so unprepared for the aesthetic shock that is Janeway's _closet_ of an office, he can't hide his appalled reaction.

"I know," she sighs. "At least they skipped any attempt at putting a sitting area in here."

"They also skipped the other three-quarters of the room. Jesus."

It's unhelpful. And inappropriate. But before Tom can think about maybe apologizing, Kathryn is laughing, and somehow, strangely, half of the awkwardness in the room (as well as in Tom's own head) just seems to dissipate.

"I take it you've studied up on ship's systems beyond the helm," Janeway states, switching into work mode. It's the kind of thing that should be a question given it's phrasing, but given the tone and who it's coming from, Tom knows it's not a question.

"I need to read up on personnel," he volunteers, anticipating her next line of thought. Janeway gives more points for honesty than most, and anyway Tom thinks he's kind of past the juncture of worrying about points.

"Seems you've already met our new doctor. I believe it involved a bar fight?"

"One we were _breaking up,_" he points out hastily.

"One _Doctor Baker_ broke up," Janeway counters, deadpan, but clearly enjoying herself as she sips from a coffee mug and scans a padd (for effect, Tom highly suspects). "I believe your attempt was, shall we say, ineffectual?"

"In my defense," Tom begins, irrationally embarrassed, despite with whom he's speaking, "there were_ five _guys to my one. Plus one seriously hammered Bolian, possessing a vocabulary even _I _found vile, and who insisted on undermining my efforts."

"Fair enough," she waves him off, a ghost of a smile appearing. "But you should know that Lieutenant Baker was most charitable in describing your failed attempt. . . Until, that is, he got in about twenty 'sirs' within the span of two minutes and I was compelled to stop him." She pauses, giving him an icy look that would have made him sweat before. . . Well, before. "That was rather unkind of you, Tom. Don't you think?"

"But funny," he says, sounding openly pleased with himself. "Oh, _so_ funny."

"Yes," she admits, and now genuinely smiles as she searches her desk for something. "Very funny. Although I should warn you that Doctor Baker seems rather motivated to repay you for your hospitality."

After this last exchange, it's all business, and they spend the next hour going over ship and crew's status.

The engineers at Utopia Planitia have been launching and then testing the latest of the defiant-class ships themselves, adjustments having been made extensively before the _Henry_ ever made it to Deep Space Four. Knowing this will take some of the excitement out of Tom powering the engines up in a few days, but it will also eliminate a number of uncertainties he would otherwise have about a new ship.

Only a handful of the crew have arrived as of the time of their meeting, but almost everyone is scheduled to report by mid-afternoon the next day. After that will come department briefings, endless drills and calibrations, and, eventually, the ship's first mission, the nature of which Janeway fails to fill Tom in on. Granted, it's possible that she doesn't know herself.

They wrap things up, and Tom stands, debating what to stay now that they've squared away most of their agenda. He wants to say something about their recent personal history, the obvious challenges to their working relationship. He has no choice but to address it, really, and he's sure Janeway herself is going to raise it when she look at him for a few beats without speaking.

"I'll have the senior officers check in with you as they report to me," she says instead, but naturally, as if this was the only thing on her mind.

"Oh," Tom manages. "Okay. Good. Excellent."

His exit is awkward enough on his own merits, but to add to it there's a crate that's been set at an unfortunate angle near the door, and he clips it with his foot hard on the way out.

"Are you alright?" Kathryn asks, rising from her chair immediately when Tom cries out in pain over the clatter.

"Ugh. Fine. Minus another bruise to my ego."

"I'm sorry. It's my fault for not moving that blasted crate to my quarters after the Captain of the _Orleans_ had it sent over."

"What the hell's in it, latinum? It weighs a ton."

"Better than latinum," she tells him, popping the lid off the crate and pulling out a bottle of expensive looking cognac. "A 'thank you', for my officers saving his Chief Engineer from being pulverized in a bar fight."

"And perhaps a little payment for keeping that fight out of your official reports?" he asks knowingly, Kathryn's rolling eyes her only confirmation. "Well I hope that guy is a damn fine engineer, because he's more than lacking in character."

"I believe Doctor Baker called him 'a steam piling of conduct unbecoming'."

"He said that _in_ _his report_?" Tom exclaims. He's simultaneously appalled and impressed. Mostly impressed.

"No," Janeway assures him, "that was merely the verbal commentary he treated me to in person. Though his official written report did mention a 'particularly stunning lack of anatomical knowledge conveyed by the inebriated individual's insults'."

This makes Tom laugh out loud, no less so because Janeway imitates Baker's voice rather well as she says it.

"He's right," Tom tips his head. "They did."

"And here I thought everyone who went through the Academy learned not to pick fights with Andorians. Nausicaans and Klingons might be more menacing, but Andorians are_ the_ _dirtiest fighters._"

This Tom says nothing to, even as he stops laughing. He's relieved when Janeway drops the subject, instead handing him two bottles of cognac.

"Here," she tells him. "Give one of these to the Doctor, will you? It can be your peace offering for setting him up with that 'sir' bit."

"Real alcohol?" Tom asks, pleased if clearly surprised. "Are you sure, Captain?"

"A few creature comforts are in order," she informs him, sitting down at her desk and picking up a padd. "As someone kindly informed me last week, there's a war on."

Tom isn't prepared for the vague acknowledgement of the days they spent together in Marseilles, and any response from him is rendered impossible by the computer informing Janeway of an incoming call from HQ.

He departs with a vague wave, her dismissal having been of the same character, and then quickly navigates his way back to his quarters, two promising bottles of amber contraband tucked neatly under his arm.

When he thinks about it, this day could definitely be playing out in worse ways.

. . . . .

"It's come to my attention you might require the skills of a doctor," Clint announces, when he appears at Tom's door that evening.

"How so?" Tom asks, over the file he's reading.

"Because," he grumbles, now looming over Tom, "I'm about to break both of your legs."

Even for off-duty trash talk, this pushes the bounds of propriety, especially for an officer who has only met him that day. But it's only the two of them, and Tom is in no position to give any protocol lectures, given that he recently slept with his present CO, has been formally court-martialed once, and also has an abiding fondness for pulling juvenile pranks on other officers.

"She said you got in about twenty 'sirs' in two minutes," Tom quotes back to Clint. "Oh, did I mention that she _hates_ being called that?"

"I'm torn, you see. Because, on one hand, I recognize this as objectively funny. And on the other, I want to cause you _grave_ physical suffering."

"I would go straight to killing rather than any simple maiming," Tom advises. "Otherwise you'd really just be making more work for yourself, Doc."

Clint sits down heavily on Tom's sofa, and without invitation. Not big on boundaries, this guy, but then Tom can't throw many stones there either.

"I think I really made an idiot out of myself with Janeway."

"Nah," Tom assures. "I think you made a fine first impression. It no doubt helped that you gave her embarrassing information on her pilot."

"A fine first impression?" Clint repeats, obviously unconvinced, and Tom reaches around to the back of the over-sized sofa.

"Why else would she let me give you this?" Tom argues, presenting one of the bottles of cognac with a flourish. "Apparently the CO of that idiot Bolian was rather keen to keep his officer out of reports. He sent Captain Janeway a liquid bribe."

"And she's sharing it with us?" Baker marvels, uncorking the bottle and taking a whiff. "Less than a day and already the good Captain has become my favorite CO of all time."

"Didn't you serve on the _Enterprise_?" Tom inquires, and then gestures to the stack of personnel summaries in explanation of his new knowledge. "Not a big fan of Picard?"

"I was only on the _Enterprise _for a few months as part of my medical training. And, yes, from what I saw, Picard is a fine man and an estimable Captain. That said," Clint pulls a swig directly from the ornately decorated bottle, "he didn't go passing around bottles of Chateau Picard. And on this fact alone, I conclude that Janeway has him beat."

"Careful with that stuff," Tom cautions, likely needlessly, as Baker doesn't strike him as much of a boozer. "I used to drink it a lot during my misspent youth. It packs a nasty punch."

"Pretty certain a lot things on this ship do," Baker notes solemnly. "Including our generous Captain."

"Given your comment earlier about your girlfriend, I'm not sure whether to take that as praise or skepticism."

"It's both," Clint shrugs. "They don't hand a ship like this to someone who's spooked by the idea of holding an unspeakable amount of power in their hands, now do they?"

"No," Tom reflects. "They don't."

What was it Clint to said to him earlier, about the_ Henry? _

_Try not to be seduced too easily. _

"Don't ever forget who's in control," Tom advises him, "and you'll be fine."

"That sounds about right," Clint says, and holds up the bottle, as if considering another sip, before he puts it back down and slides it away. "You're right. This stuff does have some teeth to it."

. . . . .


	6. Kobayashi Maru

_VI. Kobayashi Maru_

* * *

><p>"Let's try that again," Tom says, standing behind the conn. "Computer, reset simulation Paris Nineteen."<p>

There's a heavy silence on the bridge, one sounding enough like a collective inner groan that Tom feels compelled to pull the reins a little harder than he normally would in a situation like this. He's never been very good at being Mister Popular anyway, right?

_No reason to start now. _

"We can work right through dinner. And then breakfast, if we have to," he announces, sounding far more displeased than he actually is, and half of the small bridge compliment shift uncomfortably on their feet. He taps the back of the helm seat, presently occupied by a (presumably) disquieted Vulcan officer, before returning to the command chair. "Ensign Salik, same evasive maneuvers as the last run. Only this time," he pauses, trying to sound patient, "please try to actually _evade_ the incoming fire."

If anyone's tempted to snicker at the green Ensign's misfortune, their fear of their presently pissed off XO is enough to quash the impulse. _Good_, Tom thinks, and watches as the forward viewscreen fills with holographic projections of Dominion ships and remote stars.

"Aft shields down to ten percent," he announces, about two minutes into the sim. "Rerouting emergency power."

Salik is careful not to make the same mistakes he did last time, but he unfortunately makes a whole host of new ones; unable to maintain a position amenable to firing the _Henry_'s phaser cannons without also being flanked by multiple Dominion ships, the simulation ends with the ship meeting its end in a large, fiery explosion. Just like the last twenty-two times.

"Lieutenant M'ret, report," Tom calls to the tactical officer, and trying not to sound quite as defeated as he feels.

"We're dead," the sardonic, half-Romulan M'ret drawls as she throws a displeased look sideways to Ensign Salik. "Though we managed to live an entire ten seconds longer this time."

Tom suspects that the only thing preventing Ensign Salik from slumping in his chair is the fact that he's, well, _Vulcan_. But Tom knows not to let the calm exterior fool him, and so chooses to have some mercy on the poor, humiliated pilot.

"I think that's enough for this evening. Don't you, Lieutenant?"

"I think it best if the bridge crew is allowed the comfort of dying on full stomachs," M'ret concurs.

"Fair enough," Tom nods. "Bridge crew dismissed."

Everyone files out of the bridge, save M'ret, and Tom watches as Ensign Salik fails to make eye contact with anyone as he goes. The turbolift door closes for the last time, his officers departing the ship for the amenities of Deep Space Four or else to their less luxurious quarters aboard ship, and M'ret pivots in her seat to look at Tom, her beige lips drawn into something like a smile.

"I hope you plan to sleep behind the conn, Lieutenant Commander. Willing as I am to die in the line of duty, I would rather not do so because Mister Salik can't seem to maneuver a small ship around a large object."

"I thought your people find the idea of dying in battle an attractive one," Tom quips.

"That's Klingons," she retorts immediately. "Romulans are particularly quick to protect our own skins. It's practically a planetary religion, and the _only_ Romulan custom I ever genuinely took to before my family defected to the Federation."

_Romulans. Who knew they're so funny?_ The Federation should really let a few more defectors into Starfleet, if on the relative merit of their wit alone.

"It's not entirely Salik's fault," Tom argues, standing up from the Captain's chair. "He's inexperienced, and this is a punishing ship for an inexperienced pilot."

"All due respect, Lieutenant Commander, but war doesn't favor survival of the inexperienced, regardless of their _fault level._"

"True" Tom nods, "but the best we can do is try to bring officers like Salik up to speed, and play to the strengths of everyone at hand."

"Of course, sir."

Tom cranes his neck, mentally bemoaning how rigid the _Henry_'s chairs are. He'll certainly be using his authority to modify the pilot's seat, that much he knows for sure.

"Dinner plans?" he asks M'ret, as they enter the turbolift together.

"Not particularly. Read a few reports. Comm my wife while I still have the luxury."

"Doctor Baker and I are going to try that Bajoran restaurant on the station. Feel free to join us if you're up for it. I'm sure he'd love to hear that he died in a blaze of not-quite-glory almost two dozen times today, and all without his knowledge."

"Join you, sir?" she repeats. And even though she says 'sir,' Tom can tell he's about to be insulted. "I wouldn't want to break up your boys club."

"_Boys club," _Tom says, feigning offense, but it's no use. Seems the senior officers have figured out that whole not-very-by-the-book thing about him, and it's only been two weeks in drydock.

"The shared meals," M'ret supplies, "the joint workouts, the male-on-male Terran banter. It's nothing to be ashamed of. Actually it reminds me a great deal of when I first began courting my wife. Decades removed that our youthful infatuation might now be."

"Oh, you're a real riot, Lieutenant," Tom drawls. "If this is Romulan humor at its finest, it explains why your people were expelled from Vulcan all those centuries ago."

"I_ beg _your pardon, but we left Vulcan of our own accord - lest we die of complete boredom. And then my family left Romulus. Lest we die of acute conformity."

"And so you joined _Starfleet_," he points out. Not exactly an institution that shuns conformity, M'ret must admit.

"Maybe it's in my genetics," she shrugs, one of many human mannerisms Tom wasn't expecting when first he met her.

"That makes two of us, I guess."

They exit the _Henry_ together, passing through the security checkpoint that leads to the open corridors of DS4. "So the Bajoran restaurant, you say?" M'ret asks him, and Tom immediately starts to smile.

"Probably about an hour from now."

"I'll see how many poorly written reports I can read through without scooping my eyeballs out with the spoon from my tea. Try to join you when I finish."

"You do that," Tom says dryly. "Good luck, Lieutenant."

A few meters down the corridor, Tom hits his comm badge.

"_Baker here." _

"We wrapped up tactical sims, if you're still up for dinner later."

"_That depends. Do dead men eat?_"

"I see you've already been apprised of how they went," Tom grimaces. He could care less that Clint's heard, but if word has traveled to sickbay, then it's traveled elsewhere. He'd prefer not to have a morale crisis on his hand before they've even begun their first mission.

"_It's kind of a relief, if you ask me. I've been promising to clean out the shed in my house on Earth for about two years now. But if I'm dead, I don't actually have to do it, now do I?" _

"That's the spirit," Tom encourages. "Make sure to give that speech to any wounded you get in sickbay."

"_I aim to inspire. Speaking of which, I have drills of my own to finish here, boss. Meet you on the station ?"_

"Yep." He adds, before Baker closes the comm line, "and guess who's coming to dinner."

. . . . .

"Tom," he hear the voice call behind him. He's walking with a padd in his hand, re-reading the most recent tactical memo from HQ, so the sound of his own name over the din of the station barely registers in his thoughts as he makes his way through the crowded corridors. "_Mister Paris_."

_That_ gets his attention. He stops in his tracks, turning on his heel in time to see Janeway quickening her already efficient stride in order to reach him.

"Sorry, Captain," he apologizes, out of formality. "I was a bit distracted. Taking a second pass at the tac briefing you forwarded me."

She waves off his apology, obviously unperturbed, and nods toward the padd in his hand as she sighs, "it's grim reading, isn't it?"

Tom shakes his head, his only acknowledgement of the latest report on the ever-deteriorating status of the Bolian front. It's bad enough the allies had to abandon Deep Space Nine weeks earlier, but now Federation strongholds like Vulcan and Betazed will soon be in jeopardy. As dire as the newsfeeds on Earth have been, the worst of it has largely been suppressed from the public. It almost makes Tom yearn for the days that when he was sitting in Marseilles pubs, blissfully ignorant of how close the Federation really is to being crushed by the Dominion-Cardassian alliance.

"Speaking of grim," he says, clicking his tongue.

"The tactical simulations," she nods. "Yes, I already read your report. Do you think the crew will be ready in a week?"

"Most of them," Tom hedges. "Although Lieutenant M'ret has made a formal request that I tether myself to the conn once we shove off."

"Not a bad idea," Janeway tips her head in amusement. "And think how much more spacious the bridge is compared to your official sleeping quarters."

It's one of the many moments of banter that tips from normalcy to awkwardness for Tom, because as perfectly capable as they apparently are of talking about ship's business with ease, and as tempting as it is could be to have a casual, friendly conversation - engaging in the latter doesn't _feel _normal. At least, it doesn't feel normal to Tom, who after two weeks of expecting a delicate conversation that likely isn't to come, has no real idea how to deal with Kathryn beyond the clearly defined roles prescribed by rank and station.

He's told her nothing of his visit to the Maquis encampment, or else his lengthy conversation with Chakotay, and though this omission feels like a bad decision, feels vaguely like a betrayal, he doesn't know if or how he's supposed to raise such a subject. Not when Kathryn mostly acts as though nothing significant has changed since _Voyager_, despite that everything _has _changed, and the very way she speaks to him in private betrays this.

"Hopefully the outcome of tomorrow's sims will be cause for optimism," he says, clearly intending the statement as a way of wrapping up the conversation.

"Pressing plans?" she cocks an eyebrow. A harmless attempt at humor, the likes of which Tom has no cheeky response to these days.

"Late for a dinner reservation actually," he confesses, but doesn't think about how it might otherwise sound. And wouldn't, even after he says it, except that he sees something like pain flash across Janeway's face before her expression snaps closed.

"Sorry to detain you," she gestures casually. "Enjoy your dinner, Mister Paris."

It's a misunderstanding. A simple one that shouldn't matter to Tom given the odd, uncomfortable mental dance Kathryn has forced him to do everyday, what with her treating treating him as a trusted officer but never once directly addressing the events in their recent past. Never once asking about Oklahoma, or B'Elanna, or what caused him to accept the position on her ship. Which is why his first impulse - this urgent desire to vanquish the mere_ flutter of _sorrow in this woman - is _crazy_. Completely and unmistakably irrational.

"I'm having dinner with M'ret and Baker," he hastily explains.

"Good," she says, sounding vaguely approving, if impressively disinterested.

"Would you like to join us?"

They haven't shared a meal together or even a cup of coffee since he set foot on her ship. He's of the impression she might not turn it down, at least if _he_ was the one who did the offering. But thus far, he hasn't had any interest in throwing out such a friendly gesture.

_Dinner with the senior staff is different_, he assures himself. _It's work, only with food. _

"That might be nice," she allows, and smiles up at him. "Though I fear my joining you might put a dent in your conversation."

"It would be beneficial for them to spend a little off-duty time with you," he notes, sounding professional. "They've clocked a fair bit of duty time with me, but neither of them has had much interaction with you."

"You think I haven't earned their trust yet," she posits.

"They're good officers," he counters, "they already respect you because you're their Captain. I'm simply stating that it might help if they got a sense of you as person."

"Captains aren't people," she jokes.

"Right," Tom shakes his head, obviously annoyed. "I'll try to remember that."

"Tom," she says, and stops. "That was a joke."

"Of course."

"Are we arguing? Over a tired old Academy saying?"

"No, ma'am," Tom replies, now being downright petulant, even to his own ears. "Not my place to argue with the Captain."

"Jesus," she hisses, and shoves him with her arm until they're out of the main station corridor. "What in the hell is wrong with you? One minute you're inviting me to dinner with the officers and the next you're, I don't know,_ what was that_?"

"I don't know," he admits and crosses his arms.

"Then figure it out, Lieutenant Commander."

"See! It's _that_. You can't _do that _and then blame me."

"Do _what_?"

"Pull rank a second after you've spoken to me in a way that obviously flouts regs! It's hard to keep up and just trying is giving me whiplash."

"This is difficult," she whispers angrily. "I'm trying my best in a rather _unique _situation."

"_So am I_," he insists, gesturing wildly even as he lowers his voice.

"Alright," she announces, straightening her uniform jacket. "So we'll both try a little harder. Together."

"Perfect," Tom grits his teeth, and Kathryn stares daggers at him as they re-enter the crowded corridor.

"Where are we eating dinner?" she asks him, her voice pinched.

"That Bajoran place by merchant row."

"I hate Bajoran food. Too much spice."

"Sorry."

"You sound it."

_Just a companionable dinner with the ship's senior officers. No sweat. _

"Captain," Baker greets, and across from him, M'ret respectfully rises from her seat.

"Sorry to crash your party," Janeway flashes them a charming smile, "I bumped into Mister Paris and he invited me."

"The more the merrier, right guys?" Tom says, promptly taking a seat away from Janeway.

"We were just debating whether to order an appetizer," M'ret informs.

"I don't think so," Janeway and Tom chorus, and at their companions' surprised looks, Tom recovers, "I'm personally famished, so what say we go straight to entrees?"

"Sure," Baker says hesitantly, and then watches as Janeway busies herself with the menu as if it's a serious task.

They manage to get through most of dinner without incident, if with Tom remaining a bit quieter than his colleagues' would otherwise expect, when M'ret looks deeply into her water glass, contemplating something Janeway has just finished saying about the nature of exploration.

"I recognize that it was a hardship, your being stranded in the Delta Quadrant, but I have to say, as an officer, I'm a bit envious of the experience."

"Me too," Baker agrees, which surprises Tom a little. "You made so many discoveries. I think within a year, some of your EMH's logs will become required reading for people at Starfleet Medical."

"Gods, I hope not," Tom laughs, and for the first time since their rather solemn meal began.

"Oh?" M'ret questions, although Clint and Janeway already understand.

"Tom features rather _heavily_ in _Voyager_'s medical logs," Janeway explains, her eyes dancing.

"I was a busy guy," Tom defends, "if slightly prone to physical misfortune. But back to your comment," he nods to M'ret, "I would posit that being alone in the Delta Quadrant had some unique psychological side effects, the magnitude of which I didn't quite appreciate until I took this assignment and was on a ship again."

"Such as?" Clint pushes, and before Tom can respond, Janeway is already saying the first thing that popped into his head.

"The impulse to ration."

"Specifically food," Tom adds, and then gestures to their table of half finished plates. "I mean, it feels a little strange to me that we're in a time of utter crisis - that we're _literally preparing_ to go into battle - and I don't need to worry about how many replicator rations I spent on lunch or dinner."

"It's a hard mode of thinking to switch out of," Baker comments, "there are psychological studies across a variety of species and time periods that explain why and how those thought patterns stick, especially in periods of stress."

"So you're telling me that the tiny voice in my head that counted rations as we all placed our dinner orders won't be going away anytime soon? Because I have to tell you, part of me is still a wee bit disquieted, knowing that I just went through what on _Voyager_ would have been the equivalent of six days of rations."

"Eight," Janeway corrects, and then appears to cringe at the entailed admission.

Baker and M'ret share an uncomfortable look, neither of them apparently knowing how to transition from what Tom and even Janeway have admitted.

"Still envious?" Tom asks wryly, throwing his napkin atop the table, and when Clint opens his mouth, likely to try and qualify, Tom interrupts him, holding up a hand. "Well, you _should _be. Because whatever else stays with me, and however many times I ended up getting patched up and lectured by _Voyager_'s EMH, our three years out there were worth it to me."

_Our three years out there were the happiest of my life,_ he thinks, but won't say it out loud, and avoids looking at Kathryn when he speaks. Still, he notes out of his peripheral vision that she sits up a little straighter, the way she often does when her attention is completely captivated.

"Quite a career you would have in motivational speaking," Clint smirks, breaking the accumulated tension at the table. "Ever think about writing self-help books?"

"What would I title the series? _The Road to Personal Freedom: An Ex-Con's Guide to Life_?"

"You could write holo-lessons to go with it," Janeway unexpectedly jokes. "Among them could be a tutorial in how to lose spectacularly at pool."

"You play pool?" Clint asks, obviously keen on the game himself.

"Apparently not well," M'ret tsks.

"I _do _play well," Tom counters, and then looks accusingly at Kathryn, "it's just that the Captain here is a shark. Please warn the officers in your respective departments, lest she fleece them for everything they own."

"I believe he's impugning your character, Captain," Baker says to Janeway.

"I believe he is," Janeway nods.

"That's mutiny," M'ret inform him. "As head of security, it's within my authority to throw you out an airlock for that."

"Oh, let's save that for when we all need a morale boost, shall we?" Janeway offers, appearing to contemplate the merits of the idea.

"_Hey_. Who declared it Pick On Paris Day?"

"_Your Captain_," Janeway answers his pout immediately, and M'ret and Clint both openly laugh as Janeway gets up from her seat.

"This was great," Baker nods, still smiling. "Thanks for joining us, Captain. It was a privilege."

"Indeed," M'ret concurs.

"Pleasure was all mine. Enjoy the rest of your evening," Janeway bids them farewell. "See you shipside."

"I'm afraid I must depart as well," M'ret sighs, rising a minute later. "I still have work to do this evening." She adds, appearing sincerely pleased, "thank you for the invitation."

"Next time we should invite Lieutenant DeSalvo," Clint smirks, and Tom shoots him a withering look.

Lieutenant DeSalvo is the ship's Chief Engineer: an uptight, pretentious bastard who's made it clear he'll answer to Tom's orders only because protocol gives him no choice. It's something neither Tom nor apparently the Captain can figure out, as all of his DeSalvo's previous CO's have commended him for his leadership ability. Tom guesses that maybe the guy is one of the many who view_ Voyager_'s collaboration with the Borg as a betrayal of principle, but either way, it's clear the Captain is watching for any opportunity to smack the engineer down.

Too bad he's yet to give Janeway a reason, as there's nothing in the regs against being a sanctimonious asshole. Not that this has stopped the other three senior officers from expressing the hope that DeSalvo will put in for a transfer, or else that Janeway will do it for him.

"I'll make sure to invite him the next time we have tea," M'ret mutters sarcastically. "Good night, gentlemen."

When Clint and Tom are left alone, Tom can tell that the Doctor is debating whether to say something or not.

"Out with it," Tom says finally, sipping the espresso that's just arrived.

"I guess it was nice to see you and Captain Janeway go back and forth," Clint admits. "I was beginning to think there was an issue there."

"How so?" Tom asks carefully.

"You served together for more than three years under very trying circumstances. I guess I expected you to be a bit . . . chummier with her. Maybe take a few more liberties."

"I have a profound respect for Captain Janeway," Tom begins, "in no small part because, without her, I wouldn't be allowed _on board_ a starship, let alone to pilot one. _But. _ Captain Janeway isn't a CO who likes to play favorites, so I'm given the liberties she tends to extend to all senior officers, and beyond that I guess I'm like any other XO reporting to their Captain. A few years stranded together or not."

It's a good strategy, leading with the truth before you the deliver a _whopper_ of a lie; it helps in sounding and looking sincere in one's delivery, Tom has learned this from years of practice.

He meets Clint's stare head on, blue eyes unblinking as hazel ones search for something that Tom trusts he's successfully concealed.

"At least she enjoys a good joke at your expense," Clint scratches his head. "I'm sure that will be a delight for the bridge crew."

"Was certainly a pastime on our previous ship," Tom acknowledges. "No sense in breaking with tradition."

. . . . .

When Tom crawls into his bed, it's early by his own standards. It's been a long day that started poorly and ended with a heavy meal; he begins to yawn the moment he sits down on his couch with the intention of doing more work, and after thirty minutes of reading the same paragraph to no avail, decides not to fight it any longer.

He's half asleep, his face pressed deep into his pillow, when the sound of his door chime wakes him.

"Baker, I'm going to kill you," he grumbles, and calls for partial illumination. "Come in, for Kahless' sake."

When Janeway steps through the door, she appears a bit stricken.

"Captain," he says, sitting straight up immediately. "Sorry. I thought you were someone else."

"I certainly hope so," she says, but then looks around and seems reluctant all over again. "It didn't occur to me that you might already be in bed. My apologies. I'll just let you…"

"It's alright, Captain," he assures, shaking his head. Truth be told, the jolt of adrenaline coursing through his veins is enough to prevent sleep for a quite a while now. "What can I do for you?"

"Well, I. . . Honestly, Tom, it can wait. It's. . . not exactly ship's business."

"I'm listening," he says, watching her expression shift in the dim light. "Kathryn. I'm listening."

Whatever she's debating within herself, the use of her first name seems to immediately resolve it. She walks over to his bed, sitting down a few centimeters from his feet.

"I was in my quarters trying to do work, and I couldn't stop thinking about the conversation we had at dinner. I started wondering about the others, about Harry and everyone else. Whether they're struggling with some of the same issues amidst their new assignments."

"Like the thoughts about rationing?" Tom asks, and watches as she nods. "I don't know about everyone, but certainly a few. Harry and I have talked about it a few times. It started with him just like with us - once we were back on a ship. But a couple of the others - I think Pablo Baytart? They obsessed about it on acclimation leave as well. Ended up talking to a few of the shrinks at Starfleet Medical."

Kathryn doesn't say anything, just listens to him in disheartened silence, and Tom decides how best to say that this is all much less traumatic than it sounds.

"I think the only tough part was when people though they were alone in stuff like that. That, ya know, they were singularly crazy. But most everyone talks to Harry, and even if he doesn't usually pass on names, he's pretty good about assuring them that a lot of us have had those anxieties."

"Good," she says finally, but in a small voice. A voice that isn't befitting Kathryn Janeway, in or out of uniform.

"Are you alright?" he asks, because he doesn't know what else to say. "You don't seem like yourself."

"You mean I don't seem grand or infallible? All those inhuman things a Captain is supposed to embody?"

"You don't seem like yourself," he repeats. "You don't seem like the woman who stared down the Kazon and the Borg, and who, if with no small effort, finally scared her _pathologically social _cook so badly, he eventually learned not to speak to her until she'd had her morning coffee."

"That _was_ a feat," she allows, and then makes a show of of smoothing his comforter. "I guess I sometimes I worry about my crew from _Voyager_ so much... it's daunting to think about taking on the continued well-being of another group of officers."

"You have senior officers to help you," he reminds her. "Good ones. Well, minus that prick DeSalvo."

This makes her snort, which Tom takes as a victory. He watches as she begins to gather herself up, and, inevitably, regret admitting everything she's just said.

"My apologies for dumping that on your doorstep," she says, sounding resolute.

"Don't do that," he says quickly.

"Do what?"

"Do what you're doing in your head. Blaming yourself for being a human being."

"Well, the last time I was a human being, I was _so human_ that I almost lost one of my best officers."

_And there's the second shoe. _

Tom puts his head down heavily on his pillow, a little angry that they haven't had this conversation sooner, and little angry that they're having this conversation now, when he's so, _so _tired.

"I'm here," he sighs. "I'm your pilot. All three pips shined up and ready to go."

"And I'm relieved," she acknowledges, which surprises him. "But first you were my officer, and then you were my friend. And given that for a brief time I really thought you'd no longer be either, I should be grateful to have just one of those back."

"But you're not," he guesses. "Because you want both."

"I want both," she admits. "And I know that I can't have both. It's impossible."

"You know what?" he asks her, as if he's just had a revelation. Honestly, he kind of has. "I want both, too."

"Well," she says, sounding sad all over again. "That is deeply unfortunate. For both of us."

She rises from the foot of his bed and makes her way to his door, and the entire time he watches her back moving away from him, he thinks about she said to him in the real Sandrine's, after they'd played pool. How she'd thanked him for taking her there, and treating her like a person as opposed to just his former Captain.

_Fuck. _

It dawns on him that he's been an idiot, punishing her for not knowing how to deal with this thing that's happened between them when he has no idea how deal with it himself; being angry with her, hypocritically he now realizes, just because she's struggling with a situation she's didn't expect, personally or professionally.

"Kathryn," he calls, before she opens the door, "don't let a little thing like the lack of a landlord with a set of access codes keep you from breaking into my quarters when you need to talk."

She doesn't say anything, her silence long and meaningful, and when she's gone, Tom knows he has no chance at sleep.

He spends the next few hours curled awake in bed, contemplating the many species of no-win scenarios he'll be forced to endure in the upcoming days, weeks.

. . . . .


	7. Not deep enough to bleed

_VII. Not deep enough to bleed_

* * *

><p>The whole crew looks forward to the <em>Henry<em>'s first mission with an unmistakable sense of anticipation. But when it comes around, after sixteen long days in dry dock, nothing about it goes the way it's supposed to. In fact, it's a catastrophic failure, if owing to factors completely out of any of their control; a failure, Tom will later realize, that sets the tone on the ship for weeks to come.

Janeway's been ordered to provide muscle for a supply convoy that will travel exceedingly close to the front, but by the time they arrive at the scheduled rendezvous point, the supply ships have already been destroyed in an apparent ambush, and the two other Starfleet escort ships - both of which are fairly well-armed cruisers - prove heavily damaged, with three Cardassian ships still circling for the kill. Within ten minutes of arriving, the _Henry_ reduces the numbers to two Cardassian ships, but not before the one of Starfleet cruisers loses containment of its warp core, killing all three hundred and fifty hands.

Even mid-dogfight, it's a number that feels staggering to Tom. The losses on_ Voyager_ might have been deeply personal, but at least (after the initial toll of being flung into the Delta Quadrant) they were measured in single digits. He doesn't know how to process the idea that he's just witnessed that many Starfleet officers die in front of him, to say nothing of the fact that he's now having to navigate the exploding debris of the dead crew's ship.

"Unable to lock phaser cannons from this position," M'ret informs the bridge, and immediately Tom can feel two grey eyes boring holes in the back of his head.

"Tom," Janeway says in a lower than usual voice. It's a vague if deliberate command, the meaning of which everyone on the bridge understands. _Perform. Now. _

"Coming about in ten seconds," he announces, just as he swings them around a particularly nasty bit of shredded hull.

"Both ships will have a clear lock on us from that position," M'ret warns, if with remarkable calm.

"And you'll have a clear lock on them," Tom shoots back.

"Make it count Lieutenant," Janeway orders M'ret, an apparent endorsement, and Tom makes a sharp turn to starboard.

To her credit, M'ret does make it count rather spectacularly, destroying the weapons array of the one Cardassian ship and significantly weakening the shields of the second, much larger galor-class vessel in only one volley.

"Lead vessel returning fire," M'ret reports, if somewhat needlessly, the _Henry _shuddering with incoming blasts.

"Feel free to demonstrate the full payload of this ship," Janeway barks impatiently.

"Firing all phasers, all cannons," M'ret acknowledges, "multiple spreads of quantum torpedoes away."

The only Cardassian ship to survive the onslaught makes a hasty retreat, but not before lobbing a few retaliatory torpedoes at the lone remaining Starfleet vessel the _Henry_ has been trying to protect. Tom has no choice but to use the _Henry_ itself as a shield for its ailing ally, the prometheus-class cruiser having already lost everything but life support.

"Impact in three. . . two. . . one," M'ret stoically intones, and Tom feels a white hot pain when he's thrown sideways, into the console arm of the conn station.

"Report," Janeway shouts.

"Primary hull damage to all decks," M'ret informs her. "Damage to secondary hull reported on deck two, section three, but emergency forcefields are up and holding."

At this, Tom turns to speak to M'ret. Or at least, he attempts to turn, the beginning of his sentence turning into a strangled gasp as everything else but the burning, radiating pain fades away.

"_Janeway to sickbay,"_ he hears Kathryn say, just before he passes into merciful oblivion.

. . . . .

Tom wakes up in his own quarters, which is a blessing, really. He vaguely recalls pleading with the Captain to have him released. It was nothing serious, after all. Just a couple broken ribs.

Well, two broken ribs, a punctured lung, and some internal bleeding. But all in all, nothing that begged a night an entire night of medical observation by a doctor so stuffed with_ 'I knew it' _that it was coming out of his ears whenever Baker circled Tom's bed.

He stands up, wincing at the tightness in his side as he does so, and debates whether he needs a sonic shower. He does, he decides, and afterward pulls on his uniform, sliding a comb through newly cleaned hair just before he steps out of the door.

He expects Janeway to be in her ready room, so he's surprised when M'ret informs him she's working from her quarters.

"I presume you haven't witnessed the present state of the Captain's ready room," the tactical officer says, comfortably seated in the command chair. Tom has already made it clear he's not here to take over the bridge, waving her off when she moved to stand from the seat.

"I have not," Tom admits, and to this M'ret nods her head to the room in question.

This piques Tom interest, and so he strides over to the door, keying it open to reveal the chaos enshrined inside. All of Janeway's art, small though the room's collection was, is strewn in various pieces across the floor. Much more disturbing, a large piece of supporting bulkhead has fallen from one from the ceiling above and onto her desk, splitting the piece of furniture right in half, down the middle, and shattering into small bits anything that happened to be resting atop it at the time.

Tom bends down, picking up a piece of white porcelain off the floor. He holds it in his palm, careful of the sharp edges as he runs his thumb gingerly across the delicate pattern etched into the polished surface of what, he knows, used to be the rim of a cup. He closes his fingers around it, keeping it in his balled fist when he strides back onto the bridge.

"I assume DeSalvo's people are aware of that," Tom half inquires, motioning with his head to the rubble he's just departed.

"The Lieutenant has surmised there was a design flaw. He'll be in contact with appropriate people as soon as we dock."

"I'll notify him that any changes need to go through me."

"The Captain told him her ready room was not to be prioritized," M'ret cautions.

Tom opens his mouth to say something, but catches himself just as fast. The bridge is quiet, all officers appearing immersed in work, but that doesn't mean a half dozen pairs of ears aren't listening intently for whatever the ship's XO will say next.

"Understood," Tom nods instead, and M'ret flashes him a look of understanding before he leaves the bridge.

"Lieutenant Commander," she acknowledges, and then dips her head back down to the padd she was reading when first he appeared.

Outside Janeway's door, Tom tries to decide if he needs an excuse to see her. She hasn't ordered him to report to her before returning to duty. In fact, it's not quite clear he's been _approved_ for duty yet, Tom having simply interpreted the absence of threats from Baker as a sign he was in the clear. Add to this the fact that he's yet to read many reports since he left sickbay, and meeting with one's Captain is never a good idea when at all uninformed of ship status.

"Come," he hears her call, and at that point he's out of time. The doors open and he decides he'll have to wing it.

"Captain," he greets, now standing in her living room. Her quarters are apparently larger than his, but not by all that much. He can see her bed out of his peripheral vision, a photo of her mother and sister sitting on the nightstand.

"Tom," she says, sounding relieved, and drops the formal posture she apparently adopted when he chimed. "How are you feeling?"

"Great," he breezes, and she promptly squints at him, her displeasure at his lie made clear. "A little tender," he amends. "Otherwise alright."

"Take a seat," she motions, "I was just about to have another cup of coffee." She stand just as he sits (gingerly, if trying his best to hide it), and she taps a few commands into the replicator. "I didn't realize Doctor Baker had already cleared you for duty."

"Uh. Well. He hasn't _not _cleared me."

She makes a disapproving sound in the back of her throat, but doesn't lecture him further or else dismiss him back to his quarters. Though she's personally never been big on following doctor's orders, the first privilege of command is that of hypocrisy. Tom judges her lack of censure an act of compassion and is appropriately grateful.

"Lieutenant DeSalvo just sent me his repair estimates," she says, and offers him a steaming mug before sitting back down.

"How bad?"

"About two days worth of work in ideal circumstances. Given the present workload of the DS4's engineers, probably about six, seven days."

"Not the most auspicious first outing," Tom sighs, and settles a little deeper into the couch.

"I've had worse, if you call." The darkness of her tone catches Tom's attention, and he watches her intently as she pretends not to notice, her own eyes fixed on her coffee as she adds, "all things considered, I'm quite certain we were the lucky ones yesterday."

Tom doesn't know what to say to this. Doesn't know how to acknowledge that, yes, they were lucky, as they suffered not a single casualty while, all together, over nine hundred Starfleet officers lost their lives. He simply stares across at Kathryn, trying to dig through his feelings of impotence to find the gratitude. Gratitude it wasn't them. Gratitude she wasn't at her desk when that compromised bulkhead collapsed. Gratitude that no one from_ Voyager _was assigned to any of the six Starfleet ships that were destroyed (because, yes, he checked while he was in sickbay, and, no, he can't decide what his resulting feeling of relief says about him, either as an officer or else as a human being).

"I'm sorry about your favorite teacup," he says eventually, his eyes on the indescript alloy mug she presently sips from.

"Me too," she sighs, but then looks curious. "How did you know it was my favorite?"

"Because you never offered it to me when you poured me teaduring one-on-one's on _Voyager_. After maybe the second, third time I noticed…. You always brought the full teapot and let me choose a cup. But this one - _this_ _one_ you always grabbed for yourself."

He didn't mean to bring the porcelain shard in here, to her. Just carried it with him onto the bridge, and then down the corridor, and now into her quarters because he didn't know how to put it down. He unfolds his fingers as he speaks to her, the delicate piece of porcelain even whiter against the pink flush of flesh.

"You cut yourself," she tsks softly, and pulls the sliver of teacup from his hand. It's left a thin red line from where he clutched it. Not deep enough to bleed, but a cut all the same. It's the type of little nick that will sting and sting for days.

"Oops," he whispers absently, because it was a silly thing to do. A stupid, thoughtless wound to get.

"I can grab a dermal regenerator," she offers, and runs her thumb over his cut. "I'm by no means a competent medic, but I think this is well within my abilities."

"No," he declines, watching as her thumb continues to trace his palm, her other fingers supporting his hand. The pad of her index finger barely brushes against his knuckle.

"No?" she asks, her voice low.

"No." He feels himself shaking his head.

She clears her throat, her hand pulling away from his, and he feels something in the air break, like another delicate thing, shattering to the ground. He feels suddenly empty, but tells himself firmly this is irrational.

He stands, knowing it's time to leave. "I should read all of the status reports before the start of alpha shift."

"Light duties for you today," she orders, if making it sound something less than scolding.

"I promise to restrict my activities to paper pushing and ordering people around."

"Thank you," she says, sounding like she's smiling.

"Kathryn?" he asks, right before he leaves. "Do you ever. . . think about what will happen if we lose the war? _Really think about it_, I mean? "

"Everyday," she replies in a quiet voice.

Although it's a likelihood, it's a thought that didn't register within Tom as something more than an intellectual possibility until he watched another Federation ship explode in front of him; not a reality he fully internalized until he was in sickbay, thinking about his friends and worrying over whether any of them were among the dead.

"Baker gave me a sedative last night," he admits, "but before it kicked in, all I could think about was Harry. . . How odd is that? Countless planets in jeopardy, hundreds of ships destroyed. Thousands upon thousands of lives lost, and me with an Admiral for a father and two sisters half way across the quadrant. But all I can think about is whether Harry's okay. I mean, that's crazy, right?"

"Not crazy," she assures him.

"No?"

"Well, I hope not," she amends, and he hears her take a sip of coffee, "because first thing this morning I sent him a short comm asking about his new posting. To prove to myself that he's alright." She adds, sounding once again like the Captain, "see you on the bridge in an hour, Lieutenant Commander."

"Aye, aye, ma'am," he acknowledges, and with that, propels himself out her door.

. . . . .

That night, Tom dreams about B'Elanna. It isn't the first time he's done so since seeing her in Oklahoma, but it proves to be the first dream that sticks with him when he wakes up, the feelings it summons not fading to confusion the second he opens his eyes.

They're in a shuttle, one of a few people in a tight space, and he and B'Elanna are arguing about something, the nature of which he fails to comprehend. The voices around them change, and when Tom looks up from his seat B'Elanna is laughing rather than angry. He gets up from his station, closing the small gap between them before he leans down and kisses her right there, in her seat.

It feels warm and vaguely familiar and exciting all at the same time, and Tom is aware of himself pulling away only after a soft hand is raised to his chest.

"I think that's enough, Mister Paris," she tells him. Only when he looks down again it's no longer B'Elanna, but Kathryn. She's smiling and they're alone now, no other voices or footfalls in the shuttle, and when Tom says something else, Kathryn prods him in the stomach playfully, as if neither of them are on duty or in uniform, let alone in the middle of a mission. He kisses her again, his hands now pushing up her shirt, and she reaches for the fastener of his uniform pants, calling over her shoulder as she does so.

"You have the bridge," she says to Tuvok, who dutifully stands behind his station, back on_ Voyager_. They're surrounded by people, removing clothing in the middle of _Voyager_'s crowded bridge, but no one reacts, not even Chakotay, and Tom feels himself pushing Kathryn against the helm console at the same time as he hears B'Elanna's voice talking to Harry about a glitch in the ship's short-range sensors.

He wakes up in his bed with a start, swelled with a terror he doesn't fully understand.

It's an hour before his alarm is set to go off, but he doesn't attempt to sleep again. He stands up immediately and goes into his tiny bathroom, the face that looks back at him in the mirror feeling like it's still part of the dream; pale skin drawn tightly around unfocused eyes, and hair that looks darker than it should, given the room's harsh light. He ducks his face down, splashing cold water on himself until the vague feeling of despair begins to finally dissolve.

Later that morning, Tom has the bridge when the comm from Admiral Ross comes in, and he forwards it to Janeway's quarters, where she's encamped reading reports. M'ret doesn't look back at him from her seat, all junior bridge officers' eyes on Tom at seeing the fleet commander's name flash across the forward viewscreen, but sly creature that M'ret is, she does casually key in a text-only message that flashes discretely on the screen next to Tom's seat. _Care to hazard a guess? _

Tom is an expert at this kind of misuse of ship's comm systems, and so doesn't bat an eyelash before sending back, _she's out in 5 min, it's just new orders. She's here faster, all bets are off. _

Janeway strides onto the bridge about a second after he sends his reply, and he can see M'ret's head pivot a little as Tom promptly rises to relinquish command.

"Captain," Tom acknowledges, before in turn relieving the pilot on duty.

"Mister Paris," Janeway begins, "change our course to the Betazed system. Maximum warp."

"Ma'am?" he asks, already inputting the new coordinates.

"The Dominion have made a push for the planet." She adds, a momentary pause indicating a careful selection of words. "The Tenth Fleet was mid-training exercise when the advance began."

"So we've just been caught out of position, with our pants down," Tom mutters, unable to restrain his frustration. Really, he wants to pound his fists on the helm, but settles for mouthing off.

"I don't believe Admiral Ross commed to ask for _my_ _pilot's _opinion," Janeway smacks him down.

It's deserved, and rationally Tom knows it, but he's so filled with anger that it has to go somewhere. "ETA six hours, twenty-two minutes," he grits out, and then listens in agitated silence as Janeway begins to direct orders over the comm to DeSalvo. They have a lot of repairs to improvise before heading back into battle.

The six hours of transit to Betazed are long and brutal. Tactical updates trickle in, bit by disorganized bit, and all signs point to the conclusion that Betazed will not only fall to the Dominion, but fall _quickly._ The outlying systems have already been overrun, and the line of defense is now falling back, around the planet itself. If (more like when) that line should be broken, Tom surmises the planetary defenses will be almost immediately decimated by Dominion fire power, Betazed's military infrastructure being hopelessly antiquated.

"Entering Betazed system in ninety seconds," Tom says, an eternity later. The battle for the planet is all but lost, the Federation's defensive line having already been severely compromised, with more Dominion ships continuing to flood into the system.

"We've been ordered to the stem the tide of Dominion reinforcements," the Captain informs them. "Transmitting coordinates of the _U.S.S. Suffolk _and_ York. _ We'll take the lead of a formation in front of them."

Tom perks up at this. For one, taking the lead of anything sounds good right about now, and second, Alexei Culhane is a pilot on the_ York_ and Joe Carey the new Chief Engineer of the _Suffolk_. It somehow feels better, feels _right_, knowing he's fighting alongside those guys.

Janeway announces a new attack formation at the same time as she sends an encrypted message to a dozen other ships, and Tom grips his console, pain beginning to throb from his hand clutching it so hard.

He knows what Janeway's going to say next, but until she does, Tom's world collapses to the conn and the forward viewscreen, the latter filled with more than a dozen Jem'Hadar fighters.

"Do it."

And then all hell breaks loose.

It's a strange thing, memory, but months later Tom won't remember much about the order of events, or exactly how the first half of the firefight enfolded. What he will remember, and with completely clarity, is the officer at one of the auxiliary stations who repeats the same prayer over and over again as ships explode around them. (Tom assumes it to be a prayer anyway, whatever it is being in Tellarite, and most of being so antiquated the Universal Translator can't recognize it, with the lone exception of the phrase 'mercy is yours').

"Jem'Hadar fighters concentrating all fire on the _York_," M'ret announces, several minutes in. Their formation has already been decimated, with only four ships still remaining. "Their shields are down to fifteen percent."

"Maintain position and target," Janeway orders. "We can't allow any more of their vessels to enter orbit."

It isn't much longer, perhaps a minute, and the _York_ is exploding in their viewscreen. The _Suffolk_ flies directly through the debris, destabilizing the ship's shields, and a well aimed Dominion polaron blast drops the ship's shields completely. It's destroyed seconds later.

"Aft phaser array now inoperable," M'ret shakes her head.

"Reroute all available power to forward weapons."

"Multiple hull breaches on deck two."

"Photon and quantum torpedoes away, locked on lead Jem'Hadar attack vessels."

"They're flanking us," Tom shakes his head, his voice rising in frustration. "Breaking off position."

"Negative," the Captain orders. "We can't break off, Tom."

"We're the only ship of the formation left, Captain" Tom presses. "If we hold position only to be destroyed, the Dominion ships get through anyway."

It's an argument that doesn't play out, as the Fleet receives new orders. Betazed has already fallen, its capital having been overrun by Dominion troops, and all Federation ships in the sector are directed to fall back.

"Get us out of here, Mister Paris."

"Aye, ma'am."

They retreat, the Dominion ships apparently not interested in pursuing them, and and Tom inputs the coordinates for the nearest non-occupied Starbase. After that, he sits straight up in his chair and thinks about Joe Carey. Remembers a conversation they once had about Joe's oldest son, who was apparently prone to climbing trees and, occasionally, falling out of them.

"_Man, my dad used to get pissed at me for doing that," Tom had laughed in the mess hall, hearing Joe recount a particularly harrowing tale of one of young Sean's falls. _

"_Pissed?" Joe repeated, smiling absently. "Nah. I've always told Sean that it's the people with the most scars who have the fewest regrets. I guess he just… took that a little too much to heart." _

Tom's vision swims and his head aches, his hand still gripping the helm for dear life. But all he can of is Joe Carey. And Alexei Culhane. And all the scars people are going to have after today that will come with a shit ton of regrets.

_I won't tell your son you were wrong, Joe_, Tom thinks to himself, and then tries to think of something else, anything else, as they begin their long limp back to uncontested territory.

. . . . .

After the Battle of Betazed, the war feels more and more like a futile attempt at triage, the Federation-Klingon alliance attempting the stem the hemorrhage of systems falling into Dominion hands. The _Henry_ spends the next two months defending Vulcan from the now constant enemy threat; the lifecycle of the crew shifts to a constant alternation between close-call tactical encounters and resulting periods of necessary ship repair.

Janeway tells Tom and M'ret, over a working dinner in her quarters one night, that she thinks it's only a matter of time before the Romulans renounce their non-aggression pact with the Dominion, and Tom watches M'ret carefully, the Lieutenant appearing to contemplate her reply.

"Forgive me, Captain," M'ret finally says, "but your statement presumes that the Romulan Empire's chief motive is that of simple self-preservation rather than that of expansion. Expansion in all ways, and at all costs - whatever the risk to its people."

Janeway offers no counterargument to this. Simply tucks into her lasagne with a zeal Tom knows she doesn't feel.

The next time out, the _Henry _suffers six casualties in a single battle, by far their deadliest in the small ship's four months in space, and are only spared certain destruction by the timely arrival of a few heavily armed Vulcan friends.

When Tom returns to his quarters, after a solid forty-hours on duty, he finds Baker already inside, sitting on Tom's couch, Tom's bottle of the contraband cognac sitting open in front of him, and his uniform still stained with a another officer's blood.

"That stuff won't help," Tom tells him, "although if you drink enough, the pain of the hangover will kind of numb you for a few hours. Until, of course, you become such an expert drunk that you no longer_ get_ _hangovers_ anymore. Which, from what little I recall, was the point at which my life _truly _started to unravel."

"I don't really drink," Clint admits, although it's something Tom had already guessed about the guy. "I'm just out of other ideas."

Tom wishes he was someone who easily came up with rousing speeches, but it isn't one of his skills, even when in a less exhausted, less demoralized state. More realistically, he knows that there's nothing anyone could say to make Baker feel better about losing more patients in a week than he's lost in the last five years of his career.

Tom sits in a small, uncomfortable chair typically reserved for discarded uniform jackets and random padds. Gives Clint a wide berth (even though the man's in Tom's own quarters) and slowly pulls his own boots off as they settle into the shared silence.

"Need me to look at that?" Clint asks eventually, and Tom raises his eyebrows, his eyes closed and his head now resting against the bulkhead.

"Huh?"

"The cut on your hand. It made you wince when you pulled off your boot."

Tom looks down at his hand out of his reflex, the wound on his palm from Kathryn's broken teacup still refusing to heal completely. It's diminished in appearance more than a few times now, only to reopen with repeated exposure to grime, heat, and the odd leakage of console lubricants. It broke open more than usual the other week, and Tom thought to use a regenerator on it after his shift, but he never quite got around to it. Decided to let it be, the next day, after the wound had closed up overnight.

"It's fine," he says, and closes his eyes again.

"It's going to get seriously infected," Clint lectures, albeit without any conviction. "And because it's _you_, it will turn out to be some rare, necrotizing parasite. And I'll have to amputate your hand."

"Probably."

"And after the surgery, when you wake up and ask me if you'll ever fly again, I'll tell you no. Because assholes who are too stupid to get simple cuts tended to must suffer the consequences, however unforeseeable."

"Yep."

This earns a derisive snort. A sound that, in a different context, would be followed by Clint's deep chuckle.

Tom listens as the glass bottle is picked up from the coffee table and set back down a few moments later. "Thanks for the pep-talk," Clint says eventually, when he stands from the couch. He sounds less wretched now, if still in the realm of emotionally gutted.

"Technically, it was a non-pep talk."

"Hence the thank you," Clint grunts. "But I have to ask, given what you said earlier: if being a perpetual stupor of altered consciousness does so little to ease the pain, why do you think smart people like you ever make it a habit in the first place?"

"The allure of self-inflicted wounds," Tom sighs, his speech now slurred by exhaustion. He's practically asleep sitting straight up. "Sometimes it helps maintain the illusion of control. You know, in the midst of the universe constantly screwing you over."

Clint's only response is a puzzled, incomprehensible mutter. And though Tom is fond of the man, and worried about him given all that's happened, he's dearly relieved when he hears the sound of his door opening and closing, and then nothing but complete silence.

He doesn't even make it to his bed. He falls asleep in the small chair, the wall his only pillow.

. . . . .

"_Janeway to Paris." _

When Tom first hears Kathryn's voice, his first coherent thought is that maybe he's fallen asleep on duty. He's sitting up, for one, and second . . . Well, really it's just that he's fallen asleep sitting up.

"_Janeway to Paris, do you read?"_

Despite the vague fear that he feels, he can't bring himself to open his eyes just yet. He's pretty sure he's somewhere other than the bridge, now that he starts to think about it, and then there's the fact that his eyelids feel like solid titanium.

"Captain?" he acknowledges, somewhat belatedly, as he hits his commbadge. He didn't manage to get anything off besides his boots, so his badge is still pinned there, on the right side of his chest. He doesn't hear any response, which he thinks his odd, so he taps his commbadge again to make sure it's working, and then stands up from his rather unfortunate choice of resting spots.

_Ouch_, he winces, feeling the cramp that's now in his neck. _Fucking perfect. _

He's squinting now, willing his vision to clear as he makes his way to his quarter's comm panel, when the doors to his quarters swish open, and he hears Kathryn's voice behind him.

"Tom?"

"Captain," he acknowledges, and the adrenaline that comes in fear kicks in. He reaches for his boots. "Are we at Red Alert?" The klaxons should be going off if that was the case, but like everything else on the ship, the alert system is capable of damage and has gone offline at least twice recently.

"Everything's fine," she assures him, grabbing his arm to stop his frantic movements. "We've in low orbit around Vulcan, remember?"

"Right," he says, if after a long pause. "Right."

"I take it you were asleep," she apologizes, now rubbing his arm affectionately.

"Yeah," he sighs. "I was." With the realization that no ship-wide emergency looming, exhaustion claws at him again, and he sprawls out on his couch, dropping all appearance of formality. "And while I'm quite fond of your voice even over comm, may I ask what it is you needed from me at this hour?"

He's noted now that she's out of uniform, apparently off-duty for the evening. It isn't unlike her to come across the small corridor between their quarters when something crops up, but she tends to hover by his door when she does so, never staying for long.

Whatever it is this time, Tom rather hopes it can wait until morning.

"How is Doctor Baker holding up?" she asks him, making a show of noticing the bottle of booze still sitting on his coffee table.

"Sober," he tells her. "Well, mostly sober. Beyond that, you can ask him yourself."

"Fair enough," she says.

"How did you know he came by anyway?"

"The computer told me."

This cuts through Tom's fatigue a bit. He looks up at Kathryn, blinking at her in silence before he says, slowly and with meaning, "you mean it told you he was here after you asked it if I was alone."

She can't deny it, but she apparently won't admit it out loud either. She stands, looking noticeably torn before she begins to apologize. "Sorry to wake you," she says, reminding him of the last time she apologized for the same, several weeks earlier. "Goodnight, Tom."

Why does she always wait until he's exhausted to give him these small windows of opportunity? Granted, it's probably because she's exhausted as well, and therefore making less than perfect choices. But still. Just once...

"Stay," he orders, and grabs her wrist.

"Tom." If it's a warning, if a half-hearted one, especially coming from a woman who's made a career out of sounding confident.

"I didn't say stay and have protocol-breaking, viewport-rattling sex me," he argues, stopping only to yawn. "As you can see, I'm a bit too tired to be of any use in that department anyway."

"Why do you have to be so…" Her cross complaint trails off, his hand still gripping her wrist loosely, and then she sighs a little, sounding every bit as tired as Tom _knows_ she is, despite that she never looks it. "This is impossible. Why in the hell can't one thing on this ship be easy?"

"This _is _easy," he retorts softly, and closes his eyes. "This is just two tired people curling up on a couch together and falling asleep."

She's wavering and he knows it. But he also knows he's can't put more energy into convincing her because he doesn't have it to give. He lets go of her wrist, pulling a throw pillow under his head and adjusting his position so that there's room for her if she so chooses.

He feels the couch cushion dip a bit a few seconds later, and then, predictably, she's setting a proximity alarm to let them know if anyone enters the corridor outside.

He doesn't want to push her boundaries, and so doesn't move to create anymore contact than necessary between them. Granted, he can't resist opening his eyes to watch her settle in, apparently trying to find a comfortable angle for her head.

She isn't very successful it seems, and after about a minute she turns over, staring at him with weary eyes as she inhales deeply. "Jenny Delaney died yesterday," she finally breathes out. "Killed when the hull of her deck breached. She didn't even make it out of her quarters."

"I know," Tom says sadly. "Harry sent me a comm."

_Jenny Delaney, Lydia Anderson, Bill MacKenzie, Lor Golwat, Alexei Culhane, Joe Carey._

The list of officers from _Voyager_ who've been in action during the war continues to grow at a steady rate, although Tom no longer has the luxury of mourning them, the way he did at first. There are simply too many battles and too many dead, the decks of the _Henry _itself having now experienced their own painful share of blood.

Which isn't to say that tomorrow morning, or else some morning in the coming week, he won't think about Jenny Delaney whilst in his sonic shower. And then pause the cycle, so he that can weep in total silence for several minutes, only to resume the sonic pulse again, the molecular evidence of his tears promptly whisked away from his skin.

"I'm beginning to think my crew was safer in the Delta quadrant," she whispers, and now pushes against him so that her head is atop his chest, her body flush with his.

"Who knows what we would have come across if we stayed out there," he shakes his head, and wraps his arms tightly around her, one hand gently threading fingers through her hair.

"I know."

"Sleep," he instructs simply. "Just sleep."

"You're not allowed to die," she tells him, and the sternness in her voice doesn't mask the open fear.

"You either, okay?"

"I mean it, Tom."

"That makes two of us then."

Neither of them says anything after this, and in the shared silence Tom wonders - not for the first time- how the Maquis members of _Voyager_'s crew are faring. The polite comms from Mike Ayala to Harry stopped months ago, and when that happened Tom began quietly digging through newsfeeds and unofficial chatter, looking for any sign of his former crewmates' activities. He's yet to find any aside from the months-old gossip about possible Maquis raids against Cardassia, and as tempting it is to ask Kathryn if she knows anythin, he always checks the impulse. Her complete silence on the subject tells him all he thinks he needs to know about the wounds there; he won't selfishly rip them open anew for answers she doesn't have.

He pushes away the cold feeling that some of his Maquis crewmates may have died and he doesn't know they're dead. May never know it.

Eventually, he drifts off, the rhythm of Kathryn's breathing quieting his stirring fears, and the smell of her hair reminding him that they're both still okay. Both alive and fine.

In the morning, when his alarm jolts him awake, he's still on the couch but now very much alone. He strips off the dirty uniform he slept in and tries to contemplate as little as possible once he surrenders himself to the sonic shower.

On the bridge, M'ret hands him a cup of coffee after her morning greeting, tsking when she sees the inflamed cut on his hand. "You should run a regenerator over that," she tells him, just as the Captain enters the bridge. "You've had that wound for weeks."

"You're right," he nods, sounding perfectly rational. "I'll take care of it tonight."

He has no intention of doing so, and M'ret seems to know it by the look that she gives him. What that says about her powers of perception, Tom would rather not ponder too deeply.

"Something wrong?" Janeway inquires, apparently hearing the end of their conversation.

"Nothing at all," Tom says, but doesn't turn around to face her. Truthfully, he doesn't think he can just yet. Not until he's made the appropriate mental transition to her as Captain.

"If you decide that something is more than nothing, please have Doctor Baker look at it while we're still completing repairs."

"Yes, Captain," he nods, and after that, the full work of the shift slowly settles in around them.

Later on, when Tom tinkers with the power input of the helm controls, he taps his hand in a steady beat as he does so.

His palm stings every time he thuds it against the console. So he hits it again and again.

. . . . .


	8. Hope, and other dangers

_VIII. Hope, and other dangers _

* * *

><p>The Romulans finally enter the war on the side of the Klingon-Federation alliance, and though this is the development that most of the Alpha Quadrant has been praying to various deities for, many suspect the Empire's entry is too late to stop the sweeping Dominion victory that is already in the works.<p>

In this, Tom is unquestionably part of 'the many'. And to his own growing dismay, Kathryn remains an adamant, vocal member of 'the few'.

The senior officers (minus, of course, DeSalvo) often share their opinions together at length, and in these various confabs, Kathryn never misses an opportunity to voice the optimistic thesis that the war is reaching a tipping point at which momentum will unquestionably swing back in the Federation's favor.

Tom doesn't comment on the Captain's song and dance to Baker or M'ret, but he assumes Kathryn's optimism to be just that: the performance of a commanding officer who refuses to let the morale of her beleaguered crew slip any lower. It isn't until the two of them are alone one night, going over a tactical briefing in the privacy of his quarters, that he considers the thesis that Kathryn's misguided optimism is honestly just that.

The bulkhead in her ready room has yet to be made structural sound in the months since their first outing, and given the inherent danger of the room, she's been forced to abandon it all together as a work space, holding formal briefings on whatever space station or starbase they happen to be docked at, or else in her own quarters. The latter is a reality Tom knows she's less than thrilled with, given that she prefers to consider her personal space relatively off-limits. He tries to offset the intrusions by setting strict guidelines for meeting times with the Captain, and so too, offering up his own quarters as an alternative meeting place, in situations in which seats for all five of the ship's senior officers aren't required.

Tom's noticed that although Kathryn has all her one-on-one's with the other department heads in her quarters, she's never again invited him in there _alone_ since their first and only private exchange there, the morning after her ready room was destroyed and he'd brought with him a shard of her lucky teacup. He tries not let the knowledge sting, given the dangerous and often hazy line Kathryn must walk with regard to him. Still, there are many nights (quiet nights, following tumultuous and long shifts) during which it would be nice to walk across the corridor with the same casual ease that Baker feels when he waltzes into Tom's own quarters and sprawls out in the center of the couch.

"You're staring," Kathryn tells him now, not looking up from the padd she's scanning. They'd been having a lengthy exchange, about the number of ships the Dominion will need to defend the Romulan front and how many more ships she thinks it would to take to actually make a push there, when the dialogue turned into a monologue (as it often can, with her). And apparently, at some point, he started staring at her.

"You were talking," he replies. "Generally one looks at someone when they're speaking."

"You weren't _looking_, you were _staring_. And if you're really going to maintain that you did so because you were _listening_ to me, please feel free to repeat back to me even_ one thing_ I've said in the last five minutes."

She has him there. "I believe there was something about the Romulan's production schedule for more valdore-class ships?" he guesses, closing one eye. It's one of the only sentences he caught, and even then it resonated for the sole reason that he rather fancies the way she pronounces 'valdore'.

"Listening," she arches an eyebrow. "Right."

She's actually a little amused, and her failure to hide it all the way is a tactical error. Tom seizes on the opportunity to tease her. "It's not my fault," he shrugs, and sets his smile on high-beam. "Sometimes you talk a lot."

"M'ret once offered you to put you out an airlock for me," she reminds him, wagging an index finger. "If I were you, I wouldn't give her an excuse with that kind of insubordination." She sets the padd in her hand down on his couch, growing serious when she asks, "honestly, Tom, what were you pondering so seriously a moment ago?"

He was thinking about a lot things, actually. But as a couple of them involve fantasies (in one case, an actually memory) of things she's made clear are over the line, he picks a thought he presumes she'll find the least objectionable.

"I was just thinking about the Romulans," he begins, scratching a wrist that doesn't itch. "Well, more accurately, I was baffling over why you think the opening of the Romulan front so drastically changes the outcome of the war. I mean, by all standards, we're still losing ground."

"All we have to do is permanently stop the flow of Dominion reinforcements through the Bajoran wormhole," she shoots back immediately. "And there's good reason to think that will happen soon."

"And then it's a war of attrition."

"And then it's a war of attrition," she agrees, but in an oddly confident tone. As if she hasn't studied the same centuries and centuries of military history that he has. As if she doesn't know that in such a scenario, the odds are stacked in favor of the side willing to commit the most atrocities, employ the most unspeakable weapons while doling out the most indiscriminate destruction and slaughter. And while Tom is realistic enough to recognize that this party might, in time, be a desperate Federation, he by no means thinks that such a victory, at the cost of so many of their principles, will be much to celebrate.

"Surely at some point," he begins, sitting up straighter, "we have to start weighing the cost of winning against the value of the victory itself."

"The _value _of the victory?" she repeats, now remarkably agitated. "We're not talking about a few disputed systems or access to a particular trade passage. We're talking about _our survival._"

"And I'm worried about the survival of the Federation in ways that go beyond life over death."

"By all means, let's philosophize about that. Right _after_ we establish with certainty that minor life over death issue!"

She's being awfully patronizing, which is bad enough on its own, but it's compounded by the fact that she's deliberately talking past the point he's raised. He's about to open his mouth in anger, but then the memory of Chakotay's face in that farmhouse in Oklahoma - the palpable rancor the former Commander so obviously still harbored when citing his apparent fallout with Kathryn over the Borg - stops Tom from acting out any of his more impatient impulses.

"Alright," he says, holding up his hands. He's unwilling for this to become an all out war, so to speak, and it's clear from her posture that Kathryn will not be the first one to back down.

"I'll expect your weekly helm report first thing in the morning," she informs him, standing up suddenly from his couch. "I'll distribute it personally to the others after that."

"You're leaving? Now?"

"We don't have any other business to address," she says coolly, "and I have neither the interest nor the patience to continue debating tactical odds with someone junior in rank and relevant experience."

"Junior in relevant experience?" he raises his voice, now pissed to the point of no return. "I take it the years I spent navigating an unknown, hostile quadrant with you don't factor into your estimation of my _relevant experience_?"

"No," she spits back. "Not when you didn't have to personally bear the burden of that ship's safety. Not given that you had _the luxury_ of harboring as many doubts as you wanted out there, never having one hundred and forty sets of eyes on you, watching for even the _slightest_ _doubt _that you could get them home."

"You're right," he drawls, "I was just the idiot pilot."

"And _I_ was the person in charge."

"You're not _a person,_" he throws open his arms, now stooping to use one of her own jokes against her, "you're _a Captain_."

Her jaw clenches at this, her chest appearing to expand with a breath of air that she doesn't immediately exhale. "Goodnight, Lieutenant Commander."

He doesn't watch as the door closes after her, and when she's gone he makes himself set to work on the report he's expected to hand her in the morning.

He gets ready for bed after that, convinced as he slides under the blankets that he'll probably never sleep. Not when he's filled with so much bile.

He does, falling asleep immediately, and when he wakes he feels no worse than he has any other morning in recent memory.

. . . . .

The resentment he feels toward Kathryn lasts only a few days. They're too busy working around the clock after that, and by the completion of a week-long patrol of several systems surrounding Andor, his anger has grown more contemplative. He slowly begins to feel foolish and shortsighted, though not simply for the needless argument he and Kathryn have had.

Eventually, he knows, he will apologize, if only to ease the god-awful tension the bridge crew is currently suffering through on quiet shifts. But Tom decides that an apology won't exactly fix the problem, as part of what's at issue is the very fabric of their working relationship.

Baker is about as brash as Starfleet officers come, and yet such an argument would never happen between Baker and the Captain because the Doctor sees her first and foremost as his Captain. And the problem (the _real _problem, Tom has decided) is that he doesn't anymore. At least, not without a conscious effort.

What degree of fault each of them have in this, Tom goes back and forth on. But ultimately, who's at fault doesn't particularly factor into the solution. And the solution, Tom thinks, is obvious. Painful and difficult, if still obvious.

He has to request a transfer off the _Henry. _Go to another ship, with a Captain with whom he doesn't share a complicated personal rapport. More importantly, he needs to allow another officer to provide the same to Kathryn in the form of an objective XO.

His transfer out from under her command was what Kathryn had initially proposed, back in San Francisco, when she realized he wanted to keep his commission. And then that fell by the wayside, Tom deciding that the nature of their relationship was her problem to deal with, not his. _It's both_, he thinks to himself, while he tinkers with a helm interface they're in the process of upgrading. He's quiet the rest of his shift, and after it's over he goes to sickbay to cancel plans he'd made with Clint to run through a few hand-to-hand combat exercises.

"Keep blowing off drills and you're going to get weak," Clint tsks at him, before checking on a crewman who's suffered a minor plasma burn.

"You're right," Tom relents. But that evening, he can't seem to keep his mind focused during their sparing, and he ends up on his back after only a few minutes, blood slowly trickling out from a cut on his lip.

"I don't know what confined space your mind is presently trapped in," the Lieutenant grunts, pulling him to his feet. "But, boss, you better find a way out of it."

Tom doesn't think to be angry with the Doctor's presumptuous words. How can he, when Baker's right?

. . . . .

When Tom's submits his official request for transfer to Kathryn, he does so in person. She's off-duty, working in her quarters, and in accordance with his policy for the senior staff, he arranges a meeting time with her several hours in advance.

Whatever Kathryn was bracing herself for when he walks in, this obviously isn't it. She reads the padd carefully and then looks up at him, only to look back down, scanning the padd again. "If you were anyone else," she begins, sounding vaguely angry, "I would assume this to be an attempt to coerce an apology from me."

"No coercion," he offers softly, "I'm more than willing to apologize first. As I once warned you, sometimes I'm a jerk and say things that I don't mean. For that I'm truly sorry, Captain. And though I hope you feel the same, whether you do or not doesn't change the problem we have."

"Tom."

"Captain," he says, trying to sound as detached as he possibly can. "We both know the nature of our rapport compromises both of our positions. You said yourself, back on Earth. Factor in that we've developed a knack for pushing the others' buttons, and - Well, I think we both understand the difficulties."

"I don't suppose I can convince you to take a week to think about this?" she asks after a long silence, and now whatever facade of anger she began with is gone. She sounds unmistakably sad.

It's something Tom was rather expecting, although he also assumed her regret would be colored with relief. After all, it wasn't initially her heart's _fondest desire_, him still accepting this particular post, after what happened between them in France.

The thing is, she doesn't appear relieved in the slightest at his request, and this revelation makes Tom's stomach feel like it's in free fall.

"If you prefer to wait a week before submitting my request to Command, I respect your right to do so."

As far as protocol, it's her prerogative to do whatever she wants with his request, including feeding it directly into the replicator to be recycled. He doesn't think she will, but the look she's giving him makes him a little uncertain of it.

It also makes him question whether he's doing the right thing.

"Have you thought about where you'd like to go after this?" She forms her question politely and calmly, though her eyes bespeak only loss. It reminds him of the way she smiled sadly at him that first day in Marseilles, and for this reason he regrets the decision not to just send her his transfer request in a message.

This conversation suddenly feels impossible. It feels like someone is methodically pulling out his intestines, centimeter by centimeter.

"Harry mentioned a week ago that the _Exeter_'s down a pilot," he manages. "I'm not sure if the spot's still open though."

"Being with Harry," she nods. "That would be nice for both of you."

"I'd find it a comfort," he acknowledges. "I would prefer. . . to have a friend aboard."

"I'm sorry if I couldn't always be your friend here" she offers, in almost a whisper. And Tom has to fight the urge to bolt, to just run right out into the corridor, hearing her sound so openly gutted despite that she's wearing her uniform.

"You didn't have the luxury of making me feel otherwise." It's not a lot of absolution, but he means it, and it's all he has to give.

"Right."

"Thank you, Captain."

She hesitates for a moment, and Tom looks at her with as much stoicism as he can muster. He's made his decision and he thinks it's the right one, and yet he still feels like he's losing a mentor and a friend and still something else, all at the same time.

He just needs this to be over. All of it. Not just this conversation, but this whole thorny push-pull between them.

_Please just let it be over. _

"Dismissed, Mister Paris," she nods, abruptly breaking eye contact, and it's all Tom can do not to rush out of her quarters after he spins around on his heel.

_Over. Over, over, over. _

. . . . .

Three days into the week Kathryn has asked him for, Tom begins to debate what he should tell Clint and M'ret about his transfer. He'd planned to wait until the week is up and it became official, likely letting Kathryn announce it herself, so nothing seemed out of the ordinary. But they've all been serving together for months now and he can't imagine either the tactical officer or the CMO will accept his impending transfer without a strong push for explanation. Late at night, in the privacy of his quarters, he decides that the least he owes them is to tell them some version of the truth, however limited to facts that don't involve protocol infractions.

He thoughts are interrupted by a sudden jarring of the ship; an apparent lurch to starboard that makes him curse out loud, a framed picture of his oldest sister's children falling to the ground with a clatter.

"_Janeway to Paris." _

Replying to the Captain's hail becomes unnecessary a moment before Tom can find his commbadge, as the ship rolls again, the Yellow Alert klaxons beginning to blare as the sensors to both his and Janeway's doors are evidently tripped, no doubt by the eddies of the class-ten nebula causing the present turbulence.

"Shit," he hears her curse and sees across the corridor, both of their doors now frozen in the open position, that she's cradling a coffee cup that's apparently spilled all over her. "Please tell me the pilot on duty isn't in the process of further damaging my ship," she growls to him over all the clatter.

Given that he can see and hear her, watching as she shakes an apparently burned hand, he decides it best to help. "Ensign Salik might not provide the smoothest ride," he informs her, stepping into her quarters before the ship rocks again, and her door closes with difficulty behind him, "but the nebula doesn't pose a significant risk to the ship."

"Only to my teacups," she mutters, looking with pronounced vexation at another porcelain cup, shattered across the floor.

"It's better to let Salik practice with interstellar eddies, not Jem'Hadar ships."

"Valid point." She looks at him with something he can't immediately identify before quipping, "and by all means, do come in."

"Sorry," he offers automatically. "I could just see from across the way that you burned your hand. You have a med kit anywhere?"

"Bathroom," she gestures with her head, and then winces a little. "Thank you."

"Well," he calls into her, having rummaged through her bathroom, "I found the regenerator, but it's power supply is dead. Have a spare one anywhere?"

"There's a type-two tricorder in the second drawer of my dresser. The power supply from that should be compatible."

"I don't see one," he says, after more searching. Her personal items are surprisingly cluttered. Not at all what he'd expect.

"Damn," she mutters. "Maybe it's in the third drawer?"

It is, as it turns out. But among the many random items to share a home in that drawer is a familiar circular object that makes Tom forget what he's in the process of doing. He picks up the apparent memento, wrapping his fingers around the smooth, black resin.

"Did you find it?" she calls, sounding annoyed. Perhaps just vexed with the idea that someone's digging around in her private space. It's something that Tom would normally be sensitive to, were it not for the shared memory he's just unearthed.

"Uh, yeah. It was right next to the _eight ball_ in your drawer."

"Oh," she says, sounding like she's flinching all over again. "Right. That drawer."

"May I ask where this little black beauty came from?" he inquires, rolling it over his palm as he walks back to the couch. Granted, he already knows the answer, assuming he's right and there's a dearth of pool tables to which Kathryn has grown emotionally attached.

"From Sandrine's," she replies, now recovering her characteristic matter-of-factness. "Will you bring that regenerator over here already? This burn is. . . starting to hurt."

He does so, carefully examining the inflamed skin that stretches from her fingers down to her wrist, and then setting the regenerator to the appropriate setting. Goes about trying to erase the damage that's been incurred.

"I never saw you lift it," he tells her, and holds the device to her wrist. "The eight ball, I mean." He remembers that she was wearing a coat that day. It was raining in Marseilles, and when they left the storage area where the pool table was, she had her hands shoved deep in her coat pockets.

He understands the impulse, especially as the table was obviously about to be disposed of. It's just an impulse he really wouldn't expect it, coming from her.

"You had your eyes closed," she reminds him. "I believe you were bidding farewell to the pool table before we left."

"I was," he acknowledges. "I guess we have different ways of letting go of things."

"I don't like to let go of things," she admits, watching with seeming interest as he runs the regenerator back and forth across her palm. "I often. . . refuse to accept the possibility that I may have to lose something. I've been told it's a character flaw."

"There are worse flaws," he thinks out loud, and finishes the regeneration cycle. "All better."

"Thanks," she says, and flexes her hand to test it. "Now all I have to do is clean all this up."

Her quarters are in a state of disarray. A small table has turned itself over, various knickknacks lay broken on the floor, and a cascade of padds from atop her desk has apparently taken out a variety of other items on their way.

"I'll help," he shrugs, although a voice in the back of his head tells them that sticking around is a bad idea. "Many hands makes for light work."

"My mother used to say that, back when my sister and I were little."

"It was the opening line of many of my grandpa Paris' go-to lectures," he sighs.

It's relatively quick work, given the two of them, but by the time Tom finishes stacking the last of the items back onto Kathryn's desk, the ship shudders again, this time harder, and everything - including Tom - goes crashing to the floor.

"I'm going to kick _the shit_ out of that little Vulcan," he seethes, feeling pain shoot through his back as we watches the shiny eight ball roll across the floor.

"Please do," Kathryn grits, from the relative safety of a chair.

"_M'ret to Janeway." _

"Janeway here," Kathryn acknowledges, not bothering to hide her exasperation. "I certainly hope you're comming to report that we're about to clear the nebula."

"_We are, Captain. Ensign Salik informs me we'll be re-entering regular space in approximately two minutes." _

"Tell the Ensign that his Captain expects him to make that a_ non-undulating_ two minutes."

"_Mister Salik reads you, Captain,"_ M'ret notes, after a particularly amused pause.

"That'll be all then. Janeway out."

"Should I inform Salik he owes the Captain a new porcelain tea service?" Tom asks, still on the floor, and debating whether it's worth it to even get up until they've reached open space.

"To what end?" Kathryn throws up her hands. "He'll just shake it to pieces in under a month."

"I think we're probably being too hard on him," he points out, finally sitting up. "He's really not a bad pilot."

"No," she acknowledges, "he just isn't you."

It's the kind of compliment that would normally earn her a wink and a joke, but neither are comfortable for him at their current juncture, and so he remains silent, failing to acknowledge her last sentence as he pushes himself off the floor.

"Is your back alright? You landed rather hard over there."

"It's fine," he bluffs, already feeling where a large bruise will likely form. He snatches the eight ball off the floor before it starts to roll again, then hands it back to her without comment.

"You're a bad liar," she chides.

"One of the many things that landed me in prison."

"_Tom_."

"I'll have Baker look at me later."

"When? He's probably flooded with ankle sprains and nauseous crew right now."

"Tomorrow then."

It's a minor point, not the stuff of heated arguments. But the thing about his current dynamic with Kathryn is that their interactions shift without warning from talking with complete ease to fighting tooth and nail over something trivial.

And though he would like to blame it on the fact that they've slept together previously - that they're now on a small ship, under constant stress, and unable to trust themselves around the person in whom they could mostly readily confide - Tom has begun to suspect that this it's actually something innate to the way they relate to each other.

It's a thesis that makes him resent the dynamic even more.

"I'm not going to fight over this," he throws up his hands. "I refuse."

"We're not fighting," she shoots back.

"Sure we are," he gestures with exasperation. "It's one of our, oh, _three modes_ of interaction. The other two being Red Alerts and not-so-harmless flirting."

He expects to blow up at him; waits for her cheeks to flush a deep red before she tells him in a low voice to get the hell out of her quarters. Instead, she looks stricken. Maybe a bit ashamed, too.

"You're right," she admits with a brittle chuckle. "You're absolutely right." She folds her arms over herself, making a protective posture manage to look casual, and takes a deep breath when she says, "you're wise to want off this ship. This isn't healthy, what I expect of you."

What she expects from herself is even worse. But Tom doesn't say this, despite the overwhelming urge. "I've never been a poster child for mental health decisions," he smiles, by way of making her feel better.

"That makes two of us," she admits. And then, perhaps as an apology, tells him, "I've made a few inquiries with the _Exeter_'s Captain, on your behalf."

"Harry told me they've already filled the only open pilot slot they had."

"Yes, but what Harry doesn't know is that Chief Conn officer of the _Exeter_ just found out she's pregnant. She's requesting a transfer planetside."

"Chief Conn?"

"It's more appropriate for you than a simple pilot's position, given your rank. Frankly, I think any CO would be unwilling to give you anything less given that it's a significant demotion."

"I don't really care about that."

"I know," she acknowledges. "But everyone else in Starfleet does, so it's going to be difficult to get a potential CO to take you on in a position they feel you've long ago outgrown."

"How long until the slot on the _Exeter_ opens?"

"Maybe six weeks. I didn't think you'd be willing to hold off that long, so I wasn't sure whether to raise the possibility with you."

In truth, he doesn't want to wait that long. Waiting is painful; far more painful than the actual leaving will likely be.

And yet, there's the idea of being on a ship with Harry again.

"I'm willing to wait," he decides. "Assuming the spot is definitely going to come open."

"It is," she assures him. "It's only a question of when."

"Great," he says, feeling a little more at ease.

"Great," she echoes, putting on a praiseworthy show of support.

"I'll leave you be now," he tells her. "Sorry for coming into your quarters without an invitation."

"Minor medical emergencies are a good excuse," she quips, and then grows a bit more serious. "And I think you already know that my lack of private invitations to you was a professional decision, made wholly against all my impulses as a person."

"I'd hoped," he confesses. Then adds, if only in his capacity as XO, "but everyone needs someone to talk to, once in a while."

"I know where to find you. For the time being, anyway."

It's a dismissal, however subtle, and Tom seizes on the cue. "Good night, Captain."

"Good night, Tom."

. . . . .

Things tend to return to something approximating normal in the week following their turbulent time in the nebula. Whatever passes for normal anyway, once an officer has declared his desire to transfer out from under a Captain with whom he's been locked in an unbecoming cycle of flirtation and tension.

Tom tries not spend time alone with Kathryn, keeping meetings to their absolute minimum, if as pleasant and casual as he can. His strategy of diplomatic distance pans out alright, even if it takes a fair bit of energy, like when he gets a comm from Neelix stating that he'll be on Starbase 279 at the same time the _Henry _is scheduled to dock there for maintenance in two weeks.

"I guess the three of us need to have dinner together," Kathryn says to Tom, after they leave the bridge. "Or would you prefer to visit with him on your own?"

"I think a reunion is in order," he responds amicably. "So long as our Talaxian friend doesn't offer to cook."

"He seems quite invested in his training in the Federation diplomatic corps. His last comm to me involved a lengthy meditation on the ultimate weakness of the Khitomer Accords."

"A more _optimistic_ envoy for the Federation I could not hope to nominate," Tom rejoins. "Although I fear many of our present negotiations involve species who've failed to embrace the motto 'don't kill the messenger'."

"Would you care to set up the particulars of our rendezvous with Mister Neelix?"

"You go ahead. Just tell me when and where to show up, Captain."

"Certainly," she agrees, but lingers in the corridor between their quarters, as if to say something else.

Tom pretends not to notice, pleasantly bidding her a restful evening before he slips through his door. It isn't ideal, this newest dynamic, but it's safer, even if it does go against every instinct Tom feels, coiled and tight within his belly.

_Safe is better for everyone_, Tom reminds himself daily. Safe is better for ship and crew, and healthier for both of them individually. The fact that Tom has never made a habit of choosing 'safe' over its opposing option is a personal failing of his, not an objective statement about the actual intrinsic value of the things that are 'safe'. He gives this speech to himself repeatedly, most often while sitting at the conn, the weight of Kathryn's gaze pressing at his back.

"Dropping out of warp," he informs the bridge, on a morning in which he's had more to worry about than his own regrettable decision-making habits.

"Any sign of Dominion ships, Lieutenant M'ret?"

"Not presently, Captain, but picking up characteristic warp signatures. And they're fairly recent. Less than than thirty-six hours ago."

"Tom, enter orbit around that second moon. Let's see what we can find from there."

They've been ordered by Admiral Ross to break off pre-assigned Fleet movements after another defiant-class ship, the USS_ Cambridge,_ went missing in a system not too far removed from renewed fighting over Betazed. But Tom and the other senior officers have been given little information other than that they're to find the ship at all at costs. The fact that the Captain can't tell them anything else is of course frustrating, though Tom's characteristic cynicism rightly targets HQ's motives rather than Kathryn, who's merely constrained by her own orders.

What exactly was the_ Cambridge _doing out here, unaccompanied and so close to the fighting? And what about it is so valuable that the Commander of the Tenth Fleet has declared it must be found, despite that in the present state of the war, ships are lost by the dozen, occasionally the hundred, and so often without a scrap of wreckage?

"Detecting approximately forty life signs in a small complex on the moon's surface," M'ret announces. "Records indicate it was once a mining facility, but operations were suspended almost a year ago. The facility is supposed to be abandoned."

"Dominion forces?"

"Unable to tell, Captain. The moon's fistrium deposits are interfering with our sensors. No sign of surface-to-space weapons, however."

"Keep working," the Captain orders. "I'll be in my quarters if you make any headway."

"Ma'am?" Tom inquires. It's not like her to leave the bridge at a time like this.

"I've been ordered to keep Admiral Ross apprised."

The Captain exits, and M'ret favors him with a sideways glance, the meaning of which Tom is more than able to glean.

_I don't like this. _

"Me either," Tom sighs, low enough that only M'ret can hear. "Me either."

. . . . .

"Come," Tom hears Kathryn bid him, before he enters into her quarters-turned-office.

"M'ret and DeSalvo are still working on getting better scans of whoever's down there," Tom informs her, without preamble. "A modification DeSalvo already made allowed M'ret to locate a trail of wreckage on the moon's surface that's consistent with a small ship."

"The _Cambridge_?"

"M'ret doesn't think so. The vague impression she can get of the materials is more indicative of a Romulan scout ship than anything."

"Romulan?" she repeats, scanning the padd he's handed her. "We're quite a ways from any Romulan fleet movements."

"And we're awfully close to contested space, which makes it odd that the _Cambridge_ was allegedly out here on her own. But I don't suppose you can shed any light on that?"

"A little," she tells him, sounding a bit relieved. "At least, as of about an hour ago."

"Your comm with Admiral Ross?"

"I'll be briefing the senior staff," she says, by way of acknowledgement. "Will you please assemble them here in fifteen minutes?"

"Of course, Captain."

He can tell by how incredibly courteous she's being that the news is going to be a complete shitfest. It's a little tell she has: the worse the news she's about to announce, the more noticeable, even unnecessary, her politesse in the lead up to it.

"And inform Doctor Baker that I'll to speak to him now. I have a few things to go over with him privately, before the briefing."

"Understood," he nods, and hides his confusion that she needs to speak with Clint first, and not him. "I'll leave you to it, ma'am."

. . . . .

"It's been named the Limos Virus," Kathryn informs them, pulling up an image of the microscopic agent in question. "By genetic design, most humanoid species can serve as carriers, but only members of the Jem'Hadar will develop symptoms."

"It prevents the breakdown of isogenic enzymes," Baker explains, his face grim. "As all of you know, Jem'Hadar soldiers have been genetically engineered to be dependent on doses of the drug ketracel-white given to them by their Vorta handlers, the ketracel-white providing them with the isogenic enzymes their bodies require, but do not produce on their own."

"Once infected with the Limos Virus," Kathryn continues, "Jem'Hadar warriors will be unable to the metabolize their ketracel-white rations. Theoretically, their bodies will experience the same symptoms as ketracel-white withdrawal."

"Which are what, exactly?" Tom asks.

"Pain, eventual circulatory shutdown. Psychological symptoms ranging from fatigue to uncontrollable violence and paranoia."

"They rather reliably turn on their Vorta handlers," Baker concludes, after Kathryn finishes the succinct list, "and then, when there's no one else left to kill, they kill each other."

"And Starfleet has set about to _engineer_ this virus?" M'ret clarifies, more disdain in her voice than Tom actually expected from her. But perhaps that's a bit of unfounded speciesism on his part.

"There has apparently been a sustained, classified effort of an assembled group of virologists and microbiologists," the Captain confirms. "And though I have not been informed of the exact length or depth of Project Limos' efforts, what I do know is that ten day ago, at an undisclosed location, they had what they considered a significant breakthrough."

"And that batch of infectious 'breakthrough' was to be couriered by the_ Cambridge_?" Tom hazards a guess.

"Correct. But thirty-nine hours ago, Starfleet lost all contact with her."

"I don't suppose there's any indication they ended up in a firefight with the Jem'Hadar whose warp signatures we found?"

"No comm traffic to indicate as such," Kathryn replies to M'ret. "Although, obviously, Starfleet can't rule out such a possibility." She stands up, clicking off the holographic representation as she announces, "our mission is to locate the research the _Cambridge_ was carrying, and to return it, intact, to Starfleet, no matter the cost."

No mention here of trying to locate any surviving members of the _Cambridge_'s crew, but at this point in the war, Tom realizes this is par for the course. What still disturbs him far more is that they've dispatched one lone Federation ship to hunt down a weapon they apparently deem so valuable.

This isn't the time or place for voicing any of this, however, and when the Captain dismisses them with solemn note about clearance level, Tom doesn't hang back to further discuss the matter with her. She no doubt has her own misgivings about all of this, but it's up to her to lend voice to those concerns if and when she sees fit.

DeSalvo vacates the room first, which Tom minds slightly less than he used to, the arrogant bastard having at least proven himself a good engineer. A few moments later, Tom files out into the corridor on the heels of Baker, who is turn trailing M'ret. All three get into the turbolift with the expressed intention of going down to one of the science labs, but as soon as the lift begins to descend, the Doctor calls for it to halt.

"I assume I'm not alone in thinking that this feels as cozy as a romantic dinner with the Tal Shiar?" M'ret asks, before Clint can even open his mouth.

"Good to know Starfleet's officially in the biological weapons business," Tom mutters, by way of confirmation.

"I'm sure we've been in that business a long time," Baker observes "We're only being afforded the rare confirmation of it because Starfleet managed to lose a ship at an inopportune moment."

"You're alright with this?" Tom accuses, surprised at how cavalier Clint sounds.

"_Hell_ _no I'm not_," Baker shoots back. "I'm _a doctor_ for Christ's sake. And before _that, _I did covert ops. I've seen firsthand what these kind of bioagents can do."

"It seems irrational they're we're the only ship tasked with searching for the_ Cambridge_," M'ret observes, "no matter how quiet Starfleet wants to keep this."

"My thoughts exactly," Tom nods, and then shakes his head. "Why the name 'Limos' anyway?"

"Limos was the goddess of starvation in ancient Greek mythology," Clint informs him, and touches the panel to resume the lift. "One of the myths about her was that the goddess of the harvest asked Limos to curse a king who'd particularly pissed her off. So Limos filled the guy with an epic, insatiable hunger that caused him to eat everything in sight. And when feast after feast just made his hunger _worse_ - he finally ate himself."

The lift doors open, and Tom remains, along with M'ret, standing bewildered at Baker's apparent wellspring of knowledge.

"_What_?" Clint demands of them after their pause, and Tom can't help but throw an amused glance to M'ret. "I like to _read_, okay? And aren't _you _supposed to be the Earth history buff, Lieutenant Commander?"

"Twentieth century Earth history," Tom corrects him, "but good to know I can come to you with all my burning mythology questions, _professor._"

"The Greeks and Romans were too obsessed with sex and war," Baker mutters. "Norse mythology is way more nuanced. The next time we're docked at a station, you can buy me a pint and I'll tell you all about Thor."

"Fascinating," M'ret deadpans, and Tom can_ hear _her smirk.

"Remind me never to go drinking with you, Doc," Tom teases, and they round the corridor to the science facilities. But then the doors of the lab slide shut behind them and the momentary levity falls away.

"So," Baker says, touching his fingers to a panel, and Tom takes a deep breath.

"Time for you to teach us everything you can about engineering, transporting, and delivering a biological agent of mass destruction, Clint."

They set to work, all three of them, with M'ret and Tom asking questions that the Doctor answers to the best of his ability. But after an hour of pouring over the limited data they have on a microscopic organism, Tom's mind begins to wander in the moments when no one's speaking. He thinks about the cursed ruler from Clint's myth and the idea of being plagued by unremitting hunger. Wonders what it would be like to go on day after day, beset with desperate emptiness, the likes of which nothing could fill.

Tom knows it's just an ancient fable, but part of him can't help but that the poor sap was lucky that he died. Far more desolate would be a life that's long, punctuated again and again with the fevered hope that the next day might yet vanquish a constant, unfulfilled need.

. . . . .


End file.
